Crumbling Under Sin
by TheAeacusProject
Summary: *Sequel to Sins of Our Youth* The Inauguration of a new mayor the spring following the appearance of Batman and The Joker could either herald the turning over of a new leaf in Gotham, or it could usher in the darkest days the city has ever known...
1. Prologue

**A/N** : Well what have we here? After receiving an incredible (and rather insistent) response to 'Sins of Our Youth,' I considered writing a sequel but couldn't seem to figure out a plot or story that was compelling. Then a couple weeks ago, a couple disparate thoughts started bouncing around in my head and out of nowhere, last week's episode did the trick and provided me with the last bit of motivation and inspiration. What an awesome episode, right?! So without further ado, welcome to the sequel! Please let me know what you think of it by review or PM, following or favoriting-all feedback is encouraging.

To maintain clarity, everything through Season Two's episode 'Worse Than A Crime' is considered canon in this story and its predecessor. I've cherry-picked other developments that appear in my version of continuity, but all the Arkham/Hugo Strange/monsters plot silliness did not occur.

I don't own 'Gotham' or 'Batman'; I just do this for fun.

* * *

"Times are not good here. The city is crumbling into ashes. It has been buried under taxes and frauds and maladministrations..."-Lafcadio Hearn

 **Prologue**

6 YEARS BEFORE APPEARANCE OF BATMAN

Bullock strode through the massive double doors of the precinct, snatching his fedora off his head and shaking the excess water off onto the tile floor. He stutter-stepped down the stairs into the bullpen and grabbed Alvarez by the elbow, turning him around and leaving a damp hand-shaped outline on the other detective's jacket sleeve.

"Is it true?"

Alvarez pointed back towards the interrogation rooms with his pen as he looked disdainfully at his wet sleeve. "Yeah. Jim's got him back in interrogation."

Ignoring the look, Bullock squeezed tighter, patted Alvarez's shoulder twice, and began snaking his way around desks towards the back hall. He nodded at some other officers and detectives that met his eye, but said nothing.

Truthfully, for once in his life, he felt there was nothing to say.

Bullock cracked open the door to the observation room for Interrogation #2, silently easing the door shut behind him. Captain Barnes glanced back over his shoulder at the visitor and simply nodded. Harvey stepped up to the glass next to his boss and frowned. "So...he said anything of value yet?"

"Hasn't so much as breathed through his mouth."

"Makes sense; loyalest muscle I've ever come across. Word was, Zsasz got to use him as a little mind-control experiment before Galavan's sister undid the work. Why he still felt any sort of loyalty to the umbrella boy, I'll never understand."

Barnes grunted and stared at Butch Gilzean, rigid as if carved from a massive slab of granite in a diminutive chair in the interrogation room. "You don't have to understand it; we just need to get him to give up Penguin's whereabouts."

"Easier said than done, Cap. But if anyone can do..." Bullock nodded at the other person sitting at the table on the other side of the sound-proof glass. "...He can."

James Gordon aimlessly shuffled papers in Gilzean's file. Nobody would ever characterize him as being patient, but he also knew the large man across the table would never give up Penguin. Their efforts to just get an opportunity to apprehend Gilzean spanned eight months and more stakeouts and raids than Gordon could remember the force conducting in pursuit of one goal: the ultimate and permanent removal of Oswald Cobblepot from the streets of Gotham City.

After several minutes of ignoring one another, Jim clasped his hands together on top of the three-inch thick file and looked into Butch's eyes. "So, Butch...this all depends on you. You know the deal: Tell me where I can find Penguin and you go free. No strings attached, no more record. Your freedom...or both of you to Blackgate and never come out."

Gilzean simply narrowed his eyes, but remained defiantly silent. Gordon smiled wryly.

"Tell you what, Butch. We go back a long ways. Some of it good history; some of it not so much. But I respect you. So I'll give you some time to think about it. I'll make sure Harvey gets you some cushions or something for the cell." He stood and arched an eyebrow at the mirror on his side of the one-way window.

Harvey sputtered and restrained himself from giving his partner the finger. "Captain, you're not going to really let him have cushions and pillows and all manner of special perks...are you?"

Barnes turned to Bullock, eyes wide in disbelief. Over Bullock's shoulder and through the glass, he could see Gordon shut the door and exit the interrogation room. The police captain patted Bullock on the shoulder and limped towards the door of the observation room. "The only person using pillows and blankets at this precinct tonight will be you and Gordon if you can't break Gilzean or otherwise locate Penguin. Nobody leaves until he's caught."

The door slammed shut behind Barnes and Bullock pounded a fist on the glass before pointing an accusatory finger at Gilzean despite knowing that the gangster could not see the gesture.

Jim stormed across the bullpen up and up to the raised area just outside the captain's office where he began rifling through a menagerie of photographs, evidence bags, and witness statements that cluttered his desk. Bullock hustled across the bullpen after him, gasping for air as he leaned on the wood railing encircling their desks.

"Jim, what are you doing? You need to be in there, twisting his screws, finding out where Penguin's scrawny ass is hiding."

"It's here, Harvey. Not in there," Gordon returned adamantly.

Bullock glanced back at where Barnes was hobbling towards them with a scowl chiseled into his weathered face. He looked back at Jim while jabbing his damp fedora towards the police captain. "Yeah, well you'd better pull a white rabbit out of that invisible magic top hat on your desk before Barnes asks you what the heck we're doing."

"Gordon!" Barnes yelled out, as if on cue. Harvey smirked knowingly and waved his fedora as if to say, 'I told you so,' but Jim merely shrugged and skimmed a police report. "Detective Gordon, your interrogation is not finished yet."

Jim snatched a forensics report out from underneath two pictures of Butch meeting with undercover cops. He waved it in Harvey's direction before handing it to the captain. "My white rabbit."

"What the hell is this?"

"It's a forensics report," stated Gordon dryly. "That was filed about two hours ago after Gilzean was brought in."

"That I haven't signed off on yet as approved," Barnes said pointedly.

"Captain, now's your chance to review and sign, if you really think that's necessary." Gordon plucked a trenchcoat from the coat tree nestled in the corner and jingled a set of keys in the air while looking emphatically at Harvey. "I'm going alone"

Barnes threw his hands in the air in frustration. "Going where?!"

Out of curiosity, Bullock took the forensic report out of his captain's hand and smoothed it on his desk, running a finger back and forth along the lines looking for whatever had tipped Jim off. Halfway down the write-up, he saw it, too. "Son of a bitch." He looked up at Barnes. "How quickly can port authority get their response team into action?"

* * *

Gordon idled the car at the end of the dock under the cracked and rusted corrugated metal awning of a shipping company's warehouse. His lights were cut; the only illumination came from three towering and widely spaced light poles along the extent of the dock. A massive container ship, the chipped red paint of its water line around the bulbous bow and faded white paint of the Plimsoll line and stylized letters of Wayne Enterprises in dire need of maintenance and upkeep, bobbed up and down unevenly with the unruly tide.

Gordon turned off the engine and stepped out of the car; instantly, the low metallic hum of the port deluged his senses. Hastily, he jogged across the open concrete of the dock loading area, seeking shelter next to an abandoned guard shack. He edged his way between the guard shack and a vehicle gate permanently seized in the down position and began the long, monotonous walk along the dock towards the small sailor's center at the far end. As he passed through the yellow cone of light cast down from the final light pole, he heard a scuffle of shoes on gravel to his left and froze at the edge of the darkness. His hand drifted to his holster.

A shabby-looking grey cat darted out from behind a dumpster and through the light; Gordon rolled his eyes at his jumpiness. He took several breaths and finished the journey to the small two-story building at the end of the pier. A sign out front advertised phone booths, discounted calling cards, and a billiards room for the enjoyment of deckhands on the various vessels moored in the port. Gordon cast an appraising gaze at the blacked out windows, the rusted door frame, and the weed-infested hedges in front of the building.

"So this is where it ends," he whispered, and pushed on the front door. Unsurprisingly, it did not budge. He rubbed at the stubble covering his chin and began circling the building looking for a side entrance. On the side closest to the harbor, Jim found a partially torn screen door; he winced at how loud it creaked. Nevertheless, the main door did give way after three increasingly forceful slams of his shoulder. Gordon didn't hesitate as the door popped open, barreling through into a completely dark room, a flashlight in his left hand and pistol gripped in his right.

Sitting stoically on a tattered and now more brown-than-red sofa, was Oswald Cobblepot. He looked up with sadden eyes.

"Jim. My 'friend," he laughed bitterly. "Come to kill me?"

"Hardly," Gordon admonished as he side-stepped around the perimeter of the room searching for booby-traps, hidden weapons, or a henchman lurking in a closet. He made sure to keep one eye on the crime lord throughout the process, his gun occasionally sliding off his target to protect from other potential threat locations.

"We're alone," Oswald supplied.

"You'll excuse me if I don't take your word for anything ever again."

"I have always been nothing but honest with you!" The outburst crackled in the musty air of the lounge. Gordon cast the cone of his flashlight towards Penguin: his hands shook with rage and his dark eyes were wide. "And this is how you repay me?! For everything I've done for you."

"I don't owe you anything, Oswald."

"To wit, you owe me your life! Who helped you get your job back with the GCPD and disposed of a police commissioner as a favor? _Me_. Who took the fall for Theo Galavan's murder? _Me_. Who made sure that when you sent Wesker to Arkham his dealers and their clients didn't overrun the Narrows? _Me._ You've accomplished nothing without me."

Jim nodded somberly as he placed the flashlight on a dusty end table, its light projecting up towards the ceiling and casting both men in sharp relief. From his hip, Gordon revealed a set of flexicuffs. He closed the gap to Penguin, grabbing him bodily from the sofa and pinning him to the wall.

"Then I guess this will just have to be one more accomplishment I owe to you. Oswald Cobblepot, you are under arrest for murder, racketeering, grand larceny, and kidnapping. You have the right to remain silent; anything you say may and will be used against you in a court of law." The front door to their left was knocked off its hinges by a shotgun blast and GCPD swarmed the lounge, Harvey Bullock hurrying in amidst the rush of blue uniforms. "You have the right to consult an attorney..."

"I got it, Jim." Harvey clenched his hand around Oswald's arm and guided him out the door as he continued reciting the gangster's Miranda rights.

Behind them, Jim Gordon stood rigid in the seafarer's center as police canvassed the building for evidence, all sound blending together as he mulled Penguin's words.

* * *

3 MONTHS AFTER APPEARANCE OF BATMAN

The Mayor sat in his study, a furious thunderstorm raging outside the two-inch thick bulletproof windows of his residence, the sound of thunderclaps muffled by the protective glass. The potency of the storm's reflection of his inner quandary, however, seemed only to be magnified with each passing lightning bolt and raindrop lashing the window with the uncanny rapid-fire accuracy of a machine gun. He ran a trembling hand through his white hair, turned back to the massive cherry desk behind which he sat as the clock ticked unceasingly towards midnight, and worried his bottom lip. Crinkles appeared along his brow. He frowned and reread for the eighth time—or eight hundredth, he was not sure which—the letter resting in front of him. The navy blue wax seal of his auspicious office graced the upper left corner of the paper; the diligently typewritten letters of the body barely dry. A single black pen was situated on the blotter to the right of the dictum, waiting for the Mayor to use it.

He exhaled deeply and, after reading the pardon one final time, plucked the pen from his desk, scribbled his indecipherable signature in its prescribed position in the bottom right-center of the sheet, and stood to carry it down to be filed in the morning as his last official act as Mayor before tomorrow morning's inauguration.

He couldn't wait to see Hill try to deal with a vengeful Cobblepot from day one.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N** : I know, I know. I'm sorry! Time got away from me this weekend, but it's only Monday. I can't wait to hear what you guys (and gals) think of this as it progresses. Huge shout outs to those who reviewed already, especially to those returning from SOOY. It means the world. **Byz** , you're still awesome; **insomnolence** , so glad you're along for the ride! If you're looking for other amazing writing, in this fandom and a slew of others, they both provide it! To the **guest** who was kind enough to drop a review, thank you! I'm playing my cards pretty close to my chest on this one, but you never know who might show up.

Still don't own 'Gotham.' Or 'Batman.' Pretty sure that's rule number 2.

* * *

INAUGURATION DAY

The midnight thunderstorm dissipated by the morning, leaving a dripping Gotham City in its wake. Rivers of runoff water streamed along curbs into sewer drains, carrying the refuse of the city's nightlife with it. On the steps of City Hall downtown, residual water dripped from massive plastic tarps and pooled on the limestone. The sun rose, revealing pillars streaked with dark rain stains, adding another layer to the already thick Gotham grime and insidiousness. Workers appeared on the steps of City Hall as if flies clouding a piece of discarded meat, peeling back the rain-soaked tarps and using push brooms to dissipate the puddles before the crowds of power brokers descended upon downtown later in the morning. Two volunteers brought out a podium to prefabricated platform built between the middle two columns. Several others draped red and blue bunting from the platform balustrades. Overhead, the morning sun drifted behind thin grey clouds; temperatures slowly fell.

Several hours later, with a large crowd of politicians, power brokers, and interested citizens milling around the rows of chairs on the steps of City Hall, a freshly waxed Rolls-Royce purred up to the curb. The driver, his Saville Row three-piece suit lacking a single errant thread or wrinkle, stepped onto the sidewalk and opened the rear door of the car. The passenger emerged, sidestepping gracefully to allow his chauffeur to close the door. They stood silently—the passenger in an equally fashionable navy blue suit with the subtlest of pinstripes—surveying the gathering, before the driver turned to his charge.

"Why don't you run along and play while I find a car park where it's only likely the car will be broken into instead of a sure thing, Master Bruce?"

Bruce Wayne tugged at his diamond cuff links and smirked. "Or you could just leave it here, Alfred."

"Right you are, sir." The butler turned, stooping as he slid back into the right-hand drive import, and turned off the engine. He emerged once more and locked the car. "Now, shall we find Captain Gordon? Or indulge in a round of fake smiles and mingling?"

The younger man was staring at a cluster of attendees three steps up surrounding an olive-skinned man in a dark suit, his features sharply handsome, and a more timid-looking companion in a mocha-colored suit and bowler whose circular glasses were nearly opaque from their thickness. "Actually, I was thinking some congratulations were in order first." His eyes swept the steps once more. "As it is, I do not believe the Gordon family has arrived yet."

The two crossed the sidewalk and approached the group. The admirers parted as they came up the wide steps, weaving around the last couple rows of chairs. The center of attention noticed their arrival and smiled.

"Bruce! It's good to see you again, buddy."

The billionaire gave a practiced smile to match the forced enthusiasm. The colloquial 'buddy' grated on his nerves; they hardly knew each other. "Likewise, Harvey. Or is it Counselor now?"

Harvey Dent chuckled good-naturedly as he shook Bruce's hand vigorously, his left hand clasping Bruce's shoulder as cameras flashed blindingly all around them. "Not quite yet; I won't take over as Counsel to the Mayor until later today. I'm still just a D.A. for now. I thought you were in London?"

"Negotiations were a fight, but I convinced them to see reason. Besides, I didn't want to miss the inauguration. A new mayor; seeing Captain Gordon appointed as Commissioner. I'd be remiss if I wasn't in Gotham."

"I'm sorry to hear that. It an historic occasion and not to be missed." Harvey's eyes widened and he waved his companion forward. "Where are my manners? I don't think you've met Hamilton's chief of staff. Bruce, this is Temple Fugate."

"I noticed you arrived twenty-seven minutes early; punctual as your reputation suggests," said Fugate in a nasally voice.

Wayne cocked his head, trying to catch up to the strange greeting. "Uh, thanks. The invitation said be a half hour early. You've worked with Hill for long?"

"Four hundred and thirty-three days, precisely. Hopefully we can restore some sense of timeliness and responsibility to the mayoral office."

"Not a fan of the old chap, then, were you?" Alfred asked from behind Bruce's shoulder.

Fugate stiffened. "The Mayor and Mr. Hill are political rivals; my personal feelings in this instance are inconsequential."

Dent glanced awkwardly between the staffer and the newcomers. He cleared his throat. "Right, well...I'm glad you made it, Bruce. Sorry we haven't been able to get together more often; Jim always speaks very highly of you."

"Don't let him fool you; I don't speak highly of anyone," called a gruff voice from the sidewalk below the group.

Jim Gordon stood behind his daughter, Barbara, a hand on her shoulder. He wore a charcoal suit with an open collar while the girl fidgeted uncomfortably in a green dress. Dr. Leslie Thompkins, far more at ease in her blood red dress, smiled from next to his right elbow, making eye contact with both Bruce and Alfred as they closed the distance down the steps.

"Now, that I believe," Bruce replied with a small smile that almost reached his eyes. He shook the police captain's hand as his butler embraced the doctor. As he released Gordon's hand, Bruce stepped back and looked down at his friend's daughter, who gave him an expectant eyebrow raise. She clutched an inch-thick book against her side with her left hand. He solemnly extended his hand. "And how are you, Ms. Gordon?"

The pre-teen gave Bruce's hand a brief shake. "Hoping this doesn't take very long. I'm working on some lines of code with a couple friends in Central City and I don't want them to think I'm not doing my fair share."

"Barbara!" her mother exclaimed. She gave Bruce an apologetic look before they shared a quick hug. "You'll have to excuse her; she's been wholly entranced by the new computer she received a few months ago. The Batman must not have children of his own because he'd know it's not good for a girl to be staring at a screen for six hours a night."

"I'd reckon he prefers young lasses to be typing at a computer than picking fights with other kids at school," Alfred supplied pointedly as Jim looked on, cheeks reddening.

"I don't need to fight with them; I can just hack their personal drive at school and find embarrassing things they write that they don't think anyone will ever read."

"I think that's enough talk of fights and hacking for one morning, don't you?" asked Gordon as he patted Barbara on the shoulder. Bruce nodded, but slipped a wink to Barbara when her father was looking past towards Harvey Dent and the other politicians. "Guess I'd better go pay my dues before they start."

"We'll save you a seat," promised Bruce as the four parted ways from the former detective. They climbed the steps, headed for the front row. A larger crowd was gathering as more and more invitees arrived for the inauguration. At times, the four were forced to move in single-file around other members of the Gotham elite. "What're you reading there, Barbara?"

"Some stupid book for school. Mom says I can't read the notes I found online."

"Because that's cheating, honey," Leslie said sternly.

"Nuh huh. It's using all my available resources. It's only cheating if I use them verbatim for the paper. I'm _still_ going to read the book."

The group found their seats—nearly dry and all of them with a half sheet of paper taped to the chair back indicating which guest should be taking the seat. Alfred's eyes swept along the row, noting Captain Gordon's name on the chair closest to the center aisle created by both sets of chairs on that step, followed by Dr. Thompkins, their daughter, Bruce—the butler's brow furrowed. Next to the chair with Bruce's name, instead of one with his name, was a sheet annotating 'Ms. Selina Kyle' as the intended occupant.

"Ooh, is Selina going to be here? I like her. She can be your girlfriend if you want," announced Barbara before taking her seat and promptly opening her book. She removed her bookmark and looked to her left as Bruce sat down.

"She should be here," Bruce replied as he quickly scanned the gathering crowd for her. A flash of brunette hair between the shoulders of two city councilmen drew his attention. "And unless I'm mistaken, she already is."

He rose, gave a nod to Alfred, and excused himself. Long strides took him down two steps and he quickly snuck around the fire chief, closing in on his target—

"Bruce Wayne, isn't it?"

The young man in question froze, caught between Selina whirling around, emerald eyes wide with surprise at his approach, and the booming baritone of the voice asking after him. After a moment's pause, he turned towards the voice. It belonged to a man a couple inches taller than Wayne and easily twice his weight; the man was absolutely massive. He extended a meaty hand.

"I'm not sure we've been formally introduced. Rupert Thorne. It's an honor to finally meet the only surviving Wayne."

Bruce found his hand engulfed as they shook. He gritted his teeth and smiled as Thorne squeezed. "Well, I don't make a habit of attending many city council meetings, Councilman."

"I haven't been Councilman for years." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Not enough money in it to suit the taste of men like us, am I right?"

"The connection between money and politics has always been a dangerous one in my opinion. Regardless, I look forward to following how Councilman Hill fares. There's lots to be done to improve Gotham."

Thorne laughed, his eyes squinting behind a furry mustache. "That there is, my boy. That there is. I'd best be getting to my seat—and it looks like someone would like to escort you to yours."

Bruce glanced over his shoulder when Thorne nodded in that direction. Selina was standing impatiently three chairs away, arms crossed. She quirked an eyebrow at the pair. Wayne returned his attention to Thorne. "It does look like I'm in hot water. Take care, Mr. Thorne."

"Until next time, Mr. Wayne." Unbidden, Thorne clapped Bruce on the shoulder as he passed, waddling away to his seat. The billionaire watched him depart with a frown, repressing the urge to rub his sure-to-be-bruising shoulder.

After a beat, his eyes strayed from Thorne. It would not do to dwell on the swell of rumors surrounding Thorne's dealings or from where his fortune came. Not when Selina Kyle looked like she could just as easily leave scratches across his cheek as kiss him.

"I was just about to greet you; I was interrupted."

The woman cocked her head minutely, brunette ringlets bouncing around her face. "That's not an interruption. That's an impossibly large obstruction." She closed the distance and slipped a slender arm through his right elbow, falling into a practiced walk up the steps as she whispered in his ear, "I'd be surprised if he didn't have two chairs with his name on them."

Bruce patted her hand with his left one. "Don't be catty, Selina."

She shrugged and disengaged, shuffling down the row towards their seats. Barbara followed their movements with rapt attention, her book forgotten. Bruce allowed Selina to sit first, then followed suit. He leaned back and unbuttoned his jacket, placing a slightly possessive arm across the back of her chair. Selina glanced across the steps towards Dent, Thorne, and Fugate holding a quick meeting before the inauguration. "And if you end up trying to fight him, count me out. He could crush the both of us with one hand and not put down the turkey leg in his other."

Wayne snorted and he noted the gleam in her eyes at being able to get under his skin in public. Her next jab was precluded, however, by Leslie and Barbara both leaning over to say hello to the newcomer. Their greetings were quickly reciprocated as a ceremonial guard of police officers marched out onto the platform, the national flag flanked by the state's and the flag of Gotham City. A master of ceremonies strode out to the podium and asked them all to stand as the official party arrived.

The current Mayor and his wife emerged from City Hall looking for all the world as if they'd much rather be anywhere else. Gordon studied him, reflecting on the roller coaster ride of his two terms as Mayor: the last vestiges of the Galavan civil war; the capture of Penguin a little over six years earlier; one of the longest stretches of relative peace in Gotham's recent history; the brutal stretch of violence perpetrated by The Joker right before the election; the emergence of the masked vigilante, Batman. The newly elected soon-to-be mayor and his own spouse followed in the procession. Hamilton Hill faced many challenges immediately upon his swearing in as Mayor, especially confronting that final development of his predecessor's reign. How to respond to someone operating outside the boundary of the law to—ostensibly—uphold law and order was a quandary not easily solved.

Jim's musings were interrupted by the national anthem, but as the crowd took their seats, his mind began to wander again. He spoke with Hill the previous week at a transition meeting. If Hill was serious about trying to apprehend the Batman, Gordon knew that responsibility would fall on his shoulders as the new Commissioner—even if he personally wasn't keen on the idea of taking the vigilante off the streets.

The inauguration ceremonies on the platform continued with a hasty prayer for continued providence for Gotham City (Gordon exhaled too loudly in incredulity for Lee's liking, eliciting an elbow to his ribs) before calling the first of four designated speakers to the podium. As each one spoke in ever-increasing platitudes about the phenomenal citizen and champion of the people Hamilton Hill embodied, Gordon ignored their speeches. He turned his focus to reviewing the next group of officers up for evaluations and rankings, mentally working through the force person by person. Meanwhile, next to him, Leslie studied the wives of both Hill and the current First Lady of Gotham: neither seemed very enthusiastic about the speakers. She glanced down the row, noting her daughter had returned to reading her book after feigning interest in the first speaker. Bruce and Selina were each sitting with stoic expressions, watching the ceremony with her hand resting under his on his knee. Alfred met her gaze from the far end of the group, winking conspiratorially. The butler turned his attention back to the platform as the final speaker sat down. The master of ceremonies turned proceedings over to the district judge. Billowing black robes rippling around him in the crisp breeze, the judge stood just to the side of the podium and asked for Mr. Hill to approach.

The man in question, rail-thin with wispy white hair that encircled his ears and the back of his head, but left a large bald spot in the center of his head, stepped forward to take the Oath of Office. He placed his hand on a weathered Bible and raised his right hand, intoning each phrase immediately after the judge enunciated.

"I, Hamilton Hill, do solemnly swear that I will support the Constitution of the United States, the Constitution of the State of New Jersey, and the Charter of Gotham City, and that I will faithfully discharge the duties of the office of Mayor of Gotham City to the best of my abilities, so help me God."

A chorus of polite applause rose from the gathered crowd. It swelled after a few moments, surprising Gordon in its intensity. He looked around, noting that a large contingent of the public stood in the street behind them. The applause died down as Hill stepped squarely behind the podium, opened the binder holding his remarks, and gazed out over the crowd.

"Good morning, Gotham City. It is with great humility and gravity that I assume this office. I know the challenges that plagued our city when I went to sleep last night did not magically evaporate overnight; furthermore, I know they will not be erased just by my taking the Oath this morning. It will take a concerted effort on all our parts, at all levels of government and business and citizenship to right this ship and put the wind back in the sails of our city.

"But there has never been a better time than the present. Overwhelmingly, you chose me as your Mayor; I intend to honor that as a mandate from the people." Bruce frowned, recalling with ease that Hill defeated the incumbent party's nominee by a nearly two to one ratio. Such a landslide was almost unheard of in Gotham politics. He surreptitiously looked across the steps, finding Rupert Thorne sitting with a smug expression buried in his jowls. Hill continued, "And part of that mandate was cleaning up this city.

"Just before the election, our city suffered under a wave of violence previously unknown. Now, I've been a citizen of our city my entire life; it's something I am very proud to claim. I can remember the Falcone-Maroni mob wars that plagued our city for decades. Unfortunately, I remember when Theo Galavan unleashed his own violence and usurped the very power of the seat I now fill. But never in my life have I witnessed the horror through which Gotham was put by The Joker and the Batman. Our city was powerless to stop their onslaught and it has made a lasting imprint on me and how I intend to tackle the issues of law and order and justice in Gotham as your Mayor.

"It is my intent, with my first act as Mayor," he flipped a page of his script and Jim closed his eyes, envisioning the next words that would change their family's life, "to appoint a new Police Commissioner. And I can think of no one more qualified, more battle-tested for that position than Christopher Smith, who until now has hawkishly led the White Collar Crimes Unit."

Hill paused expecting a roar of approval; instead, he received a pregnant pause. Finally, smattering applause filled the silence as those in attendance looked around in surprise, murmuring amongst themselves. Bruce stared over Barbara's head at Jim. The police captain stared straight ahead at the podium, unable to fully process the unexpected announcement. The reassurances of his ex-wife and the remarks by Hill dissolved into hazy background noise.

Movement on the opposite side of the City Hall steps caught Bruce's attention, however, and he blinked. His eyes focused on the row one step down. Next to Dent, who looked equally flabbergasted, Smith was grinning and pumping the hand of an approving Rupert Thorne, twisted impossibly in his chair to offer his congratulations. Selina followed his gaze and snorted.

"So that's the way this is going to be, then."

"Looks like it," replied Bruce through gritted teeth. In his ears, too, the words of the new Mayor buzzed incoherently as disenfranchisement built with each passing minute.

On the platform, now formally relieved of his duties, the former mayor suppressed a grin. Hill and his pet Commissioner were in for a surprise.

* * *

The light grey of daylight descended into darkness the evening of inauguration day as clouds once more rolled over Gotham City. Several miles north of the city, its walls protected by dense forest on three sides and the sea on the fourth, Blackgate Prison rose imposingly in the front windshield of the transit van. The driver, swallowed, barely trusting that the call from the Mayor's office that afternoon was genuine, but the clerk seemed as equally perplexed as him. The driver rumbled over a drawbridge and found himself winding around the drive towards the front entrance of the prison within which he'd spent four of the last six years before receiving probation.

The driver smiled. No parole officer could possibly dissuade him from risking his freedom with today's developments, though. He could taste the old days, smell the fear that awaited them in every card shark's den, every smuggling front. It was the taste of power, and it was addicting.

Inside the prison, two bewildered guards stopped in front of the longest tenured member of solitary confinement. The older of the two fiddled with his key ring, found the proper key, and inserted it into the keyhole. The two-inch thick iron door swung inward, revealing a disheveled inmate curled up on a concrete cot, his black and white jumpsuit hanging loosely off his emaciated frame. Jet black hair, part of it plastered to the inmate's forehead, but most of it exploding outward in all directions rose from a lumpy pillow.

"What do you want?"

The old guard scratched his neck and shrugged. The younger guard lobbed a duffel bag filled with the inmate's own clothes onto the floor in front of the cot. "You, I guess."

The driver of the van placed the shifter in 'PARK.' He drummed thick fingers along the wheel, trying not to be nervous. After ten minutes of waiting, he finally stepped out of the van and shut the door, leaning against the vehicle as the engine continued to wheeze and rattle. Finally, a door across the courtyard opened and two guards emerged, flanking a third figure. The center figure limped slowly across the dark courtyard. When they were about fifteen feet from the van, the guards stopped. Their hands fell to their weapons as the inmate shuffled forward a bit further into the light, eyes squinting in surprise.

"B...Butch?"

The large man flashed a toothy grin and nodded his head. "Been waitin' for you, boss. Welcome back."

Oswald Cobblepot blinked fiercely, determined not to cry. He drew himself as upright as he could and met his right-hand man's rapturous look. "Yes, welcome back indeed."


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N** : Hopefully this will tide everyone over the holiday weekend (for those Stateside). Elsewhere, I hope it's equally entertaining and gets you through to Monday! The midseason finale is going to be mad. Thank you so so so much for the favs, the follows, the reviews, the reads!

I don't own 'Gotham.' Or 'Batman.'

* * *

INAUGURATION DAY +1

"Mr. Wayne," pronounced Lucius Fox. He rose, smoothing out his tie as he did so, and rounded the desk to greet his visitor. He shook hands with the younger man; a gesture to sit in a plush wingback chair followed. "To what do I owe the pleasure today?"

Bruce gave the executive a nonplussed stare. "It's a work day, Lucius. I'm allowed to be at my own company. Do I need a specific set of circumstances to speak with you?"

"No," Fox replied slowly. He canted his head slightly and gazed at the Wayne heir over his glasses. "But let's not pretend your visits are always related to the conduct of Wayne Enterprises' businesses."

Bruce furrowed his brow. "Who said anything about pretending?"

"Nobody. So I ask again, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I wanted to ask you what you know about our new Mayor."

"Hamilton Hill? We don't exactly move in the same social circles, Bruce." Fox frowned. "I am a bit more familiar with his chief donor and advisor, however."

Wayne sat straighter in the chair. "You're talking about Rupert Thorne."

"Which is who I suspect you wanted to talk about anyway," deduced Lucius. He looked pointedly at Bruce, but after a moment's pause in which Bruce maintained a blank face, Fox shrugged. "Bluntly, Thorne is much more dangerous than Hill can be."

"That was my first impression as well. What more can you tell me about him?"

"Rupert Thorne has been a key player in Gotham politics since your childhood—"

Bruce quickly interrupted, "I have no recollection of his involvement."

"That's because in the beginning, his attempts to influence the city government remained behind closed doors and in the backrooms of cigar parlors. Only after you left did he get elected as Councilman and start expanding his machine. Thorne started out as a real estate tycoon and made decent money rehabilitating and developing some neighborhoods on the north side of the city that were teetering on the brink of falling into abject poverty. There were rumors he had mob help in gaining funding at first—which makes sense as both families would serve to profit from expanding their reach into these new neighborhoods—but those rumors died out when he began investing in utilities companies and home appliance businesses, buying them out at a frightening pace."

The pieces began to fall into place for the younger man. "He wasn't just making money on the property, then. Every time he bought something he'd make sure their utilities were provided by his own companies; same with the appliances installed. Thorne monopolized every aspect of the mid-price rental market."

"That he did," confirmed Fox. "He controlled those neighborhoods at a far more intrinsic level than the mob ever could. Who cares if the mob will protect you from being harangued on the street when Thorne could threaten your home? There were even rumors he tapped the phone lines of every apartment and would turn off the heat if anything negative was said about him or his properties. Tenants had to pay massive surcharges to get back in his good graces."

"And the City Council did nothing," Bruce stated flatly. He shook his head. "Because he held a seat on that too."

"Precisely. Shortly after you left, Harvey Dent represented a group of former renters who pressed charges against Thorne's business practices. The judge threw the case out before it made trial and three months later, Thorne won election to the City Council without a challenge from anyone else in his district. The only other person that filed for the seat suspended their campaign within hours of Thorne announcing his."

"He said he wasn't a Councilman anymore when we spoke yesterday."

Fox raised his eyebrows. "Did you want to just tell me Thorne's history as you've heard it, or was there something—"

"I'm wondering why he didn't just run for Mayor himself."

Lucius nodded slowly and stood up. He trailed his fingertips along the edge of his desk before addressing Bruce's admission with a question. "Why didn't Don Falcone ever run for Mayor?"

The younger man sat back, mulling the question, and placed one ankle on the opposite knee. "I suppose because he felt he'd be restricted in certain ways. You have a staff, media events; no way to sneak away and take care of messier affairs."

"And also because as corrupt as this city can be at times, there's enough of a silent majority that would prefer we at least make an effort to have a figurehead of our city that's respectable. If not for our sake, then at least for Metropolis's and the rest of the state."

"Which is why Thorne would rather be the puppeteer." Bruce shrugged. "It makes some sense, but it doesn't make me any less wary of what's in store. I should have known they'd never want Gordon near the inner circle."

"Having a police Commissioner in their back pocket is certainly an advantage," Fox conceded. "But many Mayors have had that luxury in the past. I take it that won't deter you at all."

"Hardly." Bruce rose and stepped towards the door. "Thank you, Mr. Fox. I appreciate the insight."

"Before you go," Fox added, as he lobbed something through the air. "I have something for you."

Wayne glanced over his shoulder as a small, shiny object arced towards him. He caught it in a closed fist; a twist of his hand and he found a silver key with black bulbous end in his hand. Bruce looked up at Lucius. "Is this..."

Fox grinned slyly. "Let's go for a drive." He picked up his coat, draping it over one arm, and slid past Bruce with a clasp of his bicep. "It's for a Jaguar."

* * *

A clerk stamped the paper, slid it into a folder, handed the folder to a passing aide, and as he reached for the next folio in the stack on his left, paused in surprise. He looked over his shoulder: the aide continued her path between desks, picking up other folders as she went. The clerk pushed back his chair, urgent strides catching up to the aide before she could make it to another desk.

He tapped her on the shoulder and, without offering an explanation, tugged his folder out from the stack in her arms. Despite her protests, he flipped the folder open, verified it was the correct one, and hurried back along the several lines of desks. He clenched the folder nervously, walking urgently to an office down the hall. The clerk knocked, pushed open the door, and made eye contact with the supervisor.

"Sir, you need to see this." The supervisor waved the clerk into his office. The clerk extended the folder out in front of him like a peace offering for interrupting his morning work, which the supervisor took with a perfunctory frown.

A minute later, the supervisor snapped the folder shut and motioned for the clerk to follow. They proceeded further down the hallway, the grimy short carpeted floor blurring under their feet. The pair stopped before a dirty, narrow, several-decade old elevator and waited for the carriage to descend to their basement level.

"Fugate's going to have a field day with this," muttered the clerk.

His supervisor snorted. "Forget what CoS will do; think about the Mayor."

The elevator chimed as it arrived; they hurried into its confines. The pair rode the elevator three floors up, passing the ground floor of City Hall until they finally arrived in a back hallway of the Mayor's office suite. The supervisor and the clerk walked briskly through a maze of corridors until they approached a glass windowed office. Nervously, the clerk glanced into the room, trying to process how meticulous one had to be in order to keep every single element in the room so organized and neat. Clocks adorned every wall and several more rested atop the desk, on bookshelves, and on drawer or drop file units.

The supervisor knocked on the door timidly, pausing until Temple Fugate—after an irritated glance at his wrist watch—waved them into the office. In pinched tones, he announced, "You have precisely eighty-four seconds before I need to get the Mayor to a meeting. What?"

"Mr. Fugate, you need to see this paperwork that got processed yesterday and was filed for the archives this morning." The supervisor handed over the folder.

Fugate's eyes raced across the paperwork. He looked up at the pair, then back down at the paper. His hand began to shake. "This isn't possible." He looked up at the supervisor and clerk. "Get out. Now!"

He stepped around the desk, waving the folder towards the door; the pair awkwardly stumbled backwards out the door. Fugate pursued them, eyes dancing behind his circular spectacles. The clerk and his supervisor lurked, unsure, in the hall as Fugate speed-walked away from them and around a corner out of sight.

Temple Fugate hung up his phone and pushed open the heavy oak door to the Mayor's private office, startling the balding Hill, who folded the _Gazette_ down to peer over his glasses at his visitor..

"Temple? Is it time for the meeting with the Cardinal already?"

"The meeting's cancelled," the Chief of Staff announced in a huff—that he hadn't yet made the call to actually do so was semantics at this point. He pulled the sheet of paper out of the folder and handed it to Mayor Hill. "We have a far more time-sensitive issue at hand and we might already be too late."

Hamilton Hill's face grew progressively paler and paler as he read the memorandum detailing Oswald Cobblepot's release from Blackgate prison in accordance with his predecessor's eleventh hour pardon. "This isn't a forgery?"

Fugate checked his watch as he shook his head. "It's real; that's the original. And we may not have to cancel after all. There's still three minutes until your meeting. You have a seven minute opening this afternoon before receiving the Boy Scouts—do you want me to schedule Rupert?"

Hill put the newspaper down with the folder resting on top of it on his blotter. The new Mayor stood and pulled back thick drapes to gaze out at the steel grey skyline. "I think that would be best, yes."

* * *

Leaves crunched under the tires of the Jaguar sedan as Bruce navigated it through the forest. Fox guided his driving from the passenger seat, pointing at the unmarked access road slipping between the trees to the right; Bruce turned abruptly. They soon disappeared from view of the main road as the gravel drive serpentined further and further into the forest. After several silent minutes, the only sound in the cabin the muted sound of gravel and fallen leaves disappearing beneath the all-weather treads, Bruce blinked in surprise. The Jaguar drove into a clearing.

In the center of the clearing, its corrugated steel walls leaning precariously against one another, stood an old structure that looked disconcertingly out of place deep in the woods, but that Bruce felt should have been at the front of any of the dozen impound lots or garbage dumps on Gotham's outskirts. He parked the car and hesitantly got out.

Wayne looked across the roof of the car at his companion. "Why are we here, Lucius?"

Fox shrugged and started across the gravel lot; Bruce fell in behind. The Wayne Enterprises executive paused at the door, which was outfitted with a state-of-the-art biometric lock. Fox pressed his thumbprint to a receptacle: a light blinked green and the casing slid up to reveal a keypad. Bruce craned his neck to see over Fox's shoulder, incurring a scornful look.

"What do you think you're doing, Mr. Wayne?"

"It's my company's property; I should know the code."

Fox hunched forward to protect the code from view. "I never said anything about this being Wayne Enterprises property." He arched an eyebrow as the door clicked. Fox pushed the handle down and gestured Bruce forward. "But even if it was,that doesn't mean you need to know the code. I don't think you'll ever be returning here."

"So it is Wayne Enterprises, then," Bruce replied. He stepped into an inky black interior, which seemed far larger than the building appeared from the outside. Fox entered behind him, pulling the door closed and sealing them into complete and utter, sensory-depriving darkness. A moment later, bare white light bathed the room and blinded both men.

Once Bruce's vision began to clear and only a handful of spots appeared every time he blinked, he found the austere space housed only the two of them. The floor—rusted, dirt-stained metal—had a long crack running the length of the room to nearly each end wall, where the crack turned in either direction and created two symmetrical rectangles. The edges of one were just in front of Bruce's toes. He frowned and looked around, but saw no controls anywhere.

"Lucius, those look like retractable doors of some sort, but I do not see any—" A loud grinding interrupted Bruce's protests. He stepped back against the wall of the facility as the floor split down the middle and each half did, in fact, begin retracting. Lucius extracted a fob from his breast pocket and waved it in front of Bruce's face with an expectant look. "Secure wireless controls. Smart."

"I'm so glad I have your approval," Fox replied dryly.

A shape began to rise out of the floor as a platform ascended from below their feet. Bruce leaned forward to get a better look. "Is that...?"

Without looking, Fox tossed the ovoid black key fob to Bruce. As the platform stopped, the straining of its gears fading into stunned silence, Fox chuckled. "That one's not for a Jag."

Bruce stepped onto the platform and ran a hand along the matte black body panel of the ferocious vehicle. "Yeah, that I guessed on my own."


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N:** I'm sorry there was such a big gap between chapters. I hope to do some catching up over the holidays, especially since our Monday nights are now empty. But how awesome was the midseason finale, huh? Also, take a few minutes and go give **insomnolence's** collection of short stories a read; you won't regret it!

I don't own 'Gotham.' Or 'Batman.' If I did, they wouldn't recast certain roles for the upcoming Sirens movie. Know what I mean?

* * *

INAUGURATION DAY +5

A frigid wind roared in off the bay, its sharp sting whistling up the avenues of downtown and along the docks, drawing a shiver from even the hardiest of dockworkers. On the outskirts of Gotham's city limits, in a neighborhood whose residents long ago abandoned the century-old Gothic-inspired mansions for stone castles further up the coast, several generation-old sedans rumbled through the cold to park under thick oak trees along a circular drive at the oldest home. Massively built bodyguards emerged from the cars, their faces set in permanent grimaces against the wind as they held open passenger doors for their employers. The passengers hurried up the stone path towards the house, most burying their noses in thick scarves instead of admiring the deeply stained wood and stone masonry of the front façade; the front door set into a curved side of a tower rising into the night.

The callers passed through the entryway and into an ornate hall, marble pillars ascending from a black-and-white speckled marble floor covered in thick rugs. Cigar smoke mingled with smoke from fires roaring in multiple fireplaces. Twisted gold chandeliers swayed slightly as the cold wind swirled through the foyer and into the dining room, cobwebs fluttering between the curled ends of each arm. An enormous table, dark, heavy marble top resting on an ornately carved wooden base, dominated the room. Equally imposing chairs lined either side of the long table; visitors slowly filled them, though the chair at the head of the table sat empty.

The ensemble of visitors looked around the room warily, moving in ones and twos to pour themselves sifters filled with golden liquor, ignoring the glasses of red wine resting at each place at the table. Their host wasn't present yet, but none of them doubted the likelihood he lurked just out of view. A final visitor entered the room, his movements seem more like the eerie gliding of a ghost rather than the steady footfalls of a living adult. He wore a crisp charcoal suit and a blood red tie that looked black in the dim lighting. The tip of a pure white pocket square poked skyward; the only aspect of his wardrobe out of place: a smooth black glove on either hand. The final visitor's scalp was shaved smooth, but judging by the black eyebrows, his hair would have been equally dark. Thin, slight red tattooed lines marked the back of his neck and lower part of his scalp. The man glided to a nook near the fire—his intention to remain out of sight and mind of the others obvious but impossible.

The presence of Victor Zsasz in any room put its other occupants on edge.

Ignoring the uncomfortable swallows and sideways glances of those seated at the table, he produced a knife and began sharpening it idly. Somewhere deep in the mansion, a door slammed shut. Footsteps echoed from a hall leading back to the kitchen: two more muscled guards walked into the room from the tiled hall, silently proceeded past the group at the table, and pulled shut the massive doors to the foyer. Every eye followed their move, not a few of which also danced towards Zsasz's form in the corner. The doors thundered shut, shaking the frame of the room.

"Good evening, my old friends." The assembled members of Gotham's underworld jumped as one at the sudden appearance of their host at the head of the table; he smirked at their shock. The theatricality wasn't lost on him, but it seemed appropriate given the circumstances. With Butch Gilzean hovering a few feet behind him, Oswald Cobblepot leaned on the polished grip of his black cane, limping forward to his place of honor. Taking his seat slowly, he adjusted the tails of his tuxedo. The tips of his heavily starched wing collar pointed sharply out along the length of the marble tabletop above a pinned tie; the full Windsor knot bulbous and imposing. Slicked black hair encroached on his high forehead menacingly. His extended right hand clenched the cane as he leaned forward. "I am _so_ _glad_ all of you decided to honor your invitations and join me for this conspicuous occasion: my timely release from Blackgate Prison. I'm sure you've all been up to big things ensuring the most vibrant part of Gotham remained strong, and now I expect a full report."

The dozen crime bosses shifted uncomfortably in their seats, looking between themselves as if silently electing a spokesperson. After several uncomfortable minutes during which the only sound in the dining room came from branches scratching at the windows behind Butch's mute form, a man midway down the table on Oswald's right cleared his throat. "Well, it's a...I mean, what exactly do you want to hear, Mr. Cobblepot? Things have changed since you went away, meanin' no disrespect, you see."

The Penguin's face twisted in contempt. "Plenty taken. You think I didn't have my sources while I was in Blackgate? That I was ignorant of the absolutely disparaging efforts you all made to expand the family? So let's start with some a yes or no question. When I selflessly let Jim Gordon take me away to ensure the survival of this empire, it was the largest in Gotham's sordid history. Is it still the largest?"

"Uh," the de facto spokesperson blushed and looked down. "Not exactly, boss."

Cobblepot blinked, attempting to mask his anger behind indifference. "And who has been brash enough to challenge my hold on this city?"

"Rupert Thorne, actually," Victor pushed away from the shelves holding ornate silver platters and other diningware to step into the light of the room. "He was even bold enough to buy Theo Galavan's old penthouse."

"Victor," Penguin smiled condescendingly. "What have you been up to these last six years?"

Zsasz cracked his neck and shrugged. A look of deep concentration appeared on his face. "Well, some people need me to kill for them; so I did. Then some more people made me angry and needed to be killed; so I did. Then the Batman showed up and I had to stop, but now you're back, so I'm guessing there'll be plenty of people to kill again."

The host of the meeting frowned. He slowly twisted to look at Butch. "What on earth is Victor talking about, Butch?"

"It's true, boss," Gilzean began obliviously. "Thorne bought the building the Galavans lived in all those years ago and renovated it. Now there's all this gold trim everywhere and—"

Oswald waved his cane dismissively. "Not. That. Who is this Batman?"

"You really don't know who the Batman is?" asked the underbosses' spokesman incredulously. "He's a vigilante. Hell bent on saving Gotham, rounding up criminals; those of us tryin' to make an honest living, you know? You had to have heard of him, even in Blackgate. He's been around for months now. Maybe you ain't in the best position to be leadin' us anymore."

"Butch, what do you think?" Cobblepot asked expectantly. His right hand man moved quicker than his size belied, crossing to the underboss's seat. He took the bearded man's head in the cold metal alloy of his left hand and slammed his forehead into the marble. There was an audible _crack_ of bone and as Butch pulled the man back into his chair, a streak of red stained the white speckled tabletop. The man slumped in his chair, unmoving. "Thank you."

Gilzean silently returned to his position behind Penguin's chair and clasped his hands in front of his belt. "Any time, boss."

"I will not condone anyone questioning my fitness for resuming my position amongst this group. It was I who recruited Flannegan into our organization inside Blackgate and used his...particular talents to pass messages to this family, or is my memory betraying me?"

"Naw, it was you, Mr. Penguin," supplied one of the others at the table, his voice quivering slightly. "You're right; you've always been the head of the family."

"Well—if you're all done being the sorriest group of sycophantic, bemoaning invertebrates I've had the displeasure of working with, can we return to the matter at hand, please? We will get to Thorne in a minute. Someone explain this Batman character. Who is he?"

"Nobody knows who he is; he wears this mask and a cape."

Penguin raised both his eyebrows. "Some loonie prances around in a mask and a cape and all of Gotham's most powerful criminals have nightmares?"

"Oh, he doesn't prance. He stalks his prey in the shadows of alleys and rooftops, materializing out of thin air, beating you senseless with his fists, and then _poof_! He's gone." Zsasz theatrically clenched his fists and splayed his fingers open as if to show how quickly the Batman operated. "He's very mysterious."

"And nobody knows anything about him? Where he came from? He has to be someone! Nobody just appears in Gotham. And don't try to tell me what the police are doing; apart from James Gordon they're absolutely inconsequential."

"He's a mystery, Mr. Cobblepot. A dangerous one for people like us," suggested another member of the cabal as Zsasz pulled a nine millimeter pistol out from its shoulder holster, swiftly took it apart, and began cleaning it.

Oswald shifted in his chair and looked pointedly at the new speaker, lips twisting as if he'd just sucked down a bitter piece of fruit. "'People like us.' Well, if you're all right and this Batman is some sort of...enigmatic seeker of justice, then he'll be too busy dealing with our new Mayor to bother with me. Rupert Thorne thinks he runs this city? He's had quite the long-gestating delusion of grandeur if he thinks buying the Mayor's office makes him the most powerful man in Gotham.

"Starting tonight, we take back Gotham. I did everything I could to keep us functioning as a crime family while I was in Blackgate, as I had to remind you all, and now that our former mayor was gracious enough to pardon me, it is time to renew this once-great city with us at the top. The Rupert Thorne I remember was a playground bully whose only tool to solve his problems was a sledgehammer. Well. If nothing else, your mismanagement of our family has made us a smaller target if we can learn to be agile and surgical with the way we take back our old territory and energize our business endeavors. We will do this! And Gotham will fear us once again!" Penguin's lip quivered and he slammed his cane down on the wood floor.

A poignant silence settled over the mansion, broken only by long branches scratching windows in the wind and the intermittent crackle of wood from the fireplace The underbosses gathered around the table looked between one another, stunned at the vehemence pouring out of Penguin. Butch frowned. He cocked his head to the side and nodded stiffly at Zsasz.

"Victor, why'd you mention the Galavan penthouse? That was never our territory anyway and Theo's long dead. You don't believe the rumors, do you?"

Oswald sat up in his massive chair, twisting to look between Butch and Victor, growing confusion marking his expression. He fixated upon the bald assassin. "Yes! Why did you bring that up first and foremost?"

Zsasz looked up from his weapon, an innocent look (insofar as that was possible for him) on his face. "Well, it just has lots of history for you, so I thought you'd be curious to know it has a new tenant."

An eyeroll accompanied a dry response from Cobblepot. "Those don't sound like rumors to me."

"Because, Butchy, they aren't rumors. I was on a hit one night before the election and I saw a leather-clad woman with a whip fending off a handful of security guards before doing a swan dive off the top of a building in the Narrows." Zsasz shrugged. "Thought you might want to know Ms. Galavan was still alive and very much kicking."

Cobblepot's face reddened instantly, muscles in his neck straining behind the crisp collar. He closed his eyes momentarily and swallowed. "Thank you, Victor. I think it's time everyone left. NOW!" Heavy chairs scraped against the floor as the underbosses still living shoved each other out of the way attempting to get out of the mansion. Within moments, only the peculiar assassin and Butch were left keeping Oswald company in the confines of his father's home. The killer reassembled his weapon and slipped it back into his armpit. He slowly made for the front door.

"And Victor?" Oswald called after him, a brutal undertone lacing his words. Zsasz paused dramatically with his hand on the door knob. Penguin stood and leaned forward, both hands spread out on the marble table. "I want Tabitha's head."

"You'll have it."

Penguin smirked, settling back into his chair and toasting Zsasz with the full glass of wine resting at his place. The assassin disappeared out the door, leaving Gilzean and Cobblepot with the lifeless body halfway down the table. "Have somebody remove this, Butch. Butch?!"

"Huh?" The loyal enforcer blinked, returning to the present from inside a theatre of the past. "Sure thing, boss."

He disappeared as Penguin stared into the fire and smiled, sipping at the nearly purple cabernet in his hand. Gotham would be his again, and not even ghosts of the past could stop him.

* * *

The bell over the grime-layered glass pane in the front door of the small office chimed over the rustle of blinds as the visitor shut the door. Beyond an unattended desk in the anteroom, a door with frosted glass embossed with the words 'HARVEY BULLOCK, P.I.' stood cracked open. From beyond the door, a clatter of keyboard keys wafted towards the visitor.

"Hey! Read the sign: no new business requests after 3. That goes for cops, elected officials, and ex-wives, too!" Harvey barked from behind the partially open door.

The visitor chuckled, unbuttoning his blazer. "And what about old partners?"

"Crap. Jim!" A crash echoed through the tiny office as Bullock attempted to extricate himself from behind his desk. He knocked over the metal trash bin, several three-ring binders filled with case files, and kicked a filing cabinet in his haste. Gordon pushed the frosted glass door open and let himself into Harvey's office just as the older man stood, wiped his hand on his corduroys, and greeted Jim. The perfunctory handshake did not seem nearly familiar enough; shortly, Harvey pulled him into a quick hug. "Here, sit. Sit! Sorry; it's a little messy."

Gordon looked around, skeptical. There wasn't an open surface upon which to sit in the entire room. He hoisted a stack of manilla folders off a chair, brushed a layer of dust into the air, and sat on the very edge of the chair as Harvey resumed his spot behind the desk. Jim forced a quick smile.

"Some place you've got here."

"Eh, it's not much, but I'm not here much either. " Harvey closed the large file in front of him on the desk and leaned back, resting his feet on the brown cover of the file.

"Business that good?" Gordon asked tentatively.

"It is at the bar on the corner," clarified Harvey. "I'm there most of the work day; do my best thinking with bourbon as you know."

"Right." Gordon leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "You didn't call after the inauguration."

Bullock turned his palm up towards the wood-paneled ceiling. "I figured you'd need some space. You know, you're always welcome to join me: Gordon & Bullock, PI's for hire."

Jim arched an eyebrow and smirked. "Quit the force? I don't think so."

"Come on! You know Hill doesn't respect you, or the GCPD. Money's a lot better too." Bullock rubbed his thumb and first two fingers together emphasizing his final point.

"Harv, I've never cared about money. I can do more good for Gotham as a Captain in the GCPD than I can as a badge for hire."

"The Batman's doing a ton of good and _he's_ not GCPD." Harvey heaved his feet off the desk and lurched forward. "Is he?"

"Not a chance," Gordon assured him, his lips twisting between a smile and a grimace. "I've got a bigger problem though."

"Let me guess: Barbara thinks every day is 'Take-Your-Daughter-to-Work Day?'"

Jim looked down at his hands. "She's satisfied just trying to get in touch with Batman on that computer he left for her; not that she's been able to yet. No, my problem's an old one." Gordon looked up. "The umbrella boy is back."

"Cobblepot?!" Bullock exclaimed, incredulous. "No way, Jim. We looked him up for good."

"The Mayor's office is trying to keep it hush-hush, but it's true. The old Mayor pardoned him in the eleventh hour and he was released from Blackgate the day of the inauguration."

"This is bad news. Like, as bad as that time you and I got stuck on that sinking cruise ship out in Gotham Bay. Or that time when Ed..."

Gordon nodded as he interrupted Bullock's rambling, "Yeah, it's not good. And I have no idea how Smith's going to handle it."

"I don't think Smith's who you have to worry about, partner. You need to worry about Thorne. What's he going to do to make sure Penguin doesn't hurt his biggest investment?"

Gordon frowned. "You mean all the property Thorne owns around the city?"

"I mean the Mayor."

* * *

Stone scraped against stone as the fireplace ground back into place and Alfred Pennyworth slipped the remote into his vest pocket. He patted it comfortingly; the hidden entrance stopped moving. The butler flipped a switch on the brick and the electric fire roared to life.

"You get your own remote; no fair," opined a feminine voice from the corner window.

Alfred sighed and turned around, no sign visible he was surprised or caught unawares by the young woman lurking in the study. "On the contrary, Miss Kyle, it's only prudent I have one so as to make sure Master Bruce doesn't do something in complete disregard for his own life and, say, return home injured and die down there."

Selina scrunched up her face in disgust. "Forget I said anything."

"Said anything about what?" Bruce entered from the opposite side of the fireplace. He glanced from his butler to his girlfriend; his eyes sparkling in the artificial firelight upon studying the latter.

Selina stalked across the room towards Bruce, light steps in tall black boots making hardly any noise on the thick carpet. Without breaking stride, she slipped her hand in Bruce's and continued walking past him, her insistence spinning him around as he dutifully followed her out of the study with a questioning look towards Alfred.

"You're on your own, Master Bruce," the butler said innocently, slowly making his way across the hearth to innocuously eavesdrop on his charge.

"Selina, where are you—"

"Just shut up for once, Bruce, and go along for the ride."

Alfred rolled his eyes and chuckled. He mumbled to himself as he crossed to the open window, shutting out the evening chill. "You're out of your depth, son."


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N** : I'll keep this short and sweet. Thank you so much to all of the people reading and adding this to stories you track! It means so much to know there's an audience, especially while we're between episodes. **Byz**...what more can I say? And to the guest reviewer **decoy** : I really, really agree I should continue this. And I am! Sorry to all for the long delay. I promise I'm not abandoning this by any means. Cheers!

I don't own 'Gotham.' Or 'Batman.' Just having fun.

* * *

INAUGURATION +8-26

The first attack came in the small hours of the morning, the street empty; not a peddler, shopper, or police officer in sight. The absence of the first two? That was completely by accident; the disappearance of any law enforcement of any kind completely by design. A GCPD patrol car cruised along an intersecting street two blocks from the building, idled at a stoplight, and—despite the patrol route calling for him to make a left and drive past the hotel owned by a Thorne subsidiary group—heeded the green light and drove straight ahead into the Gotham night. As he disappeared from view, a large delivery truck rumbled around a distant corner and barreled directly down the street towards the hotel, disregarding two red lights and hopping the curb aggressively.

Glass cracked, strained for a millisecond, and shattered into dust-like particles. The truck crunched through chairs and small end tables scattered throughout the lobby; chandeliers swayed violently and plunged towards the marble floor. The truck's driver hurled himself out of the unblocked doorway to the cabin just before the front bumper met the concierge desk at over fifty miles per hour and instantly crumpled. He landed roughly on his shoulder, sliding hard into an entertainment center. Shouts of pain mixed with the harsh grinding of metal on metal as the shock wave of the truck's impact rippled backwards through the vehicle and the logo on the side—Gotham Shipping Co., with 'A Thorne Group Entity' in smaller print beneath—became distorted.

The driver stood slowly, limping severely as he hurried to get out of the lobby. Shuffling through the detritus of his violent entry, he ignored the screams of hysteria from the concierge and bellboys cowered behind the cracked marble desk. The night manager came hurrying out of his office and into the foyer just in time to see the driver fold himself into the back of a van and disappear into the night. Running a hand through his hair in stunned disbelief, he wrinkled his nose at a peculiar odor and glanced down. The manager gagged and backpedaled from the liquid seeping out of the rear of the crashed truck. Nauseous waves surged into his throat. The manager wheeled, running in his uniform through a maze of halls and into the alley behind the hotel; he vomited behind a dumpster just as the rest of the night crew emerged into the alley behind him.

"I called the cops," said a young, doubled over parking attendant, hands gripping his knees firmly.

The manager stood and wiped the back of his sleeve across his mouth. He nodded, pulling out his cell phone as he turned away from his employees to make another call. There was somebody else to notify far more important than the police.

* * *

Three days later, the lead sales representative in the leasing office of Thorne Properties newest apartment complex stood with a practiced smile, extending his hand across the desk to greet the two broad-shouldered, leather jacket-clad men arriving just before close. They exchanged pleasantries and the leasing agent began his sales pitch, emphasizing the unique details and amenities that made the new complex the ideal community for their needs. He plucked a large folder filled with informational sheets out of a drawer, spreading it on the desk and pointing to different available floor plans.

"Are there any requirements that are absolute must-haves?" he asked candidly.

The two large men glanced between one another. "The higher the floor, the better."

The elevator dinged, but the leasing agent talked over the chime as he guided the two prospective renters down the carpeted hall to an unassuming faux wooden door. He smiled cheesily: "Welcome to your new home."

As his clients wandered around the unit, the leasing agent continued his non-stop narrative about the granite countertops, the Thorne Industries appliances, benefits of an open floor plan, and how stirring the view from the balcony would be at sunset.

"Could we see the balcony?" one of the men asked gruffly.

"Of course!" said the agent. He smiled, unlocked the door, and stepped onto the concrete balcony. The two men followed him outside, peering over the railing at the narrow strip of asphalt eighteen floors below them. The grimy skyline of Gotham City rose around them on all sides. "It's an impressive view. Is this high enough for you?"

The clients glanced at one another as the leasing agent raised his eyebrows. Finally, the one behind the agent's shoulders nodded. "It's perfect."

He stepped forward, quickly placing the leasing agent in a choke hold. As he flailed, fingers scrabbling against the thick bicep squeezing against his neck, the agent's feet were snatched off the balcony by the second man; another two seconds and the leasing agent passed out due to the lack of blood flow to his brain. The first thug released his arm, sliding his grip down to each shoulder and helping his partner hoist the leasing agent up and over the railing...

* * *

Captain Gordon pushed the yellow police tape out of the way, stooping over slightly to pass through the doorway into the empty apartment. Two young photographers—neither of whom looked like they could order a drink in Gordon's eyes—milled around the kitchen, taking pictures of the barren refrigerator and empty countertop disappearing into the bedroom to catalogue the undisturbed, empty room. The manager of the property stood nervously what should eventually become the living room. His eyes darted towards the balcony door over and over again. Gordon stepped outside and patted Alvarez on the shoulder.

"I came in through the loading dock. Did they really...?" He let the question trail off as Alvarez jerked his pen to the railing and resumed filling out a form. Gordon stepped over tentatively, swallowing hard. He glanced over and immediately whirled around, a hand over his mouth.

"Yeah, that was my reaction, too," Alvarez said, eyes still focused straight down.

Gordon rubbed his temple and focused on his breathing. Nausea would not be helpful at a crime scene—and he'd seen plenty of grislier sights than this. He looked back down at the street where a group of paramedics were delicately sliding the dead body of the leasing agent onto a stretcher. A bloody shadow of a body remained on the asphalt.

The detective stepped back inside and approached the manager. "And you didn't get their IDs or pictures or anything?"

"Sure; we always take people's driver licences when they take tours. I gave them to the first officers that arrived. They said they worked in the Commissioner's office and he was personally invested in the case." Gordon's face darkened gradually as the manager justified his actions. _Of course_ Smith had a personal interest in a case pertaining to Thorne. The manager noticed his change of demeanor and hesitated before finishing his statement. "So I turned over the IDs to them. Should I not have?"

Gordon tried to fake a reassuring smile. "No, you did the right thing. Alvarez!" He waved his most trusted lieutenant into the bedroom and bid the photographers leave them alone. Jim glanced over his shoulder. "I don't think we're going to get very far with this guy. But if anything else comes up from the Commissioner's office, let me know, will you?"

"You don't think he's trying to cut you out of the loop, Jim?"

"No, I think he already has."

* * *

Within hours, reports of vandalism at three other Thorne Properties apartment complexes slithered onto the police band and dispatch dutifully directed patrol cars to respond. The petty crimes—a far cry from the brutal murder dominating the evening news—gnawed at Gordon, sitting at his desk and typing up a summarization of his visit to the crime scene. The factor tying each event together shone clearly, but what he could do about it failed to reveal itself. Steam curled up through the alleyway outside his apartment as he leaned against the fire escape that evening, still thinking about Thorne, the lost Commissioner's post, and the whether the Batman might ever see fit to get involved in politics. He shivered and took a longer-than-usual pull of bourbon to compensate; a drizzle began and Gordon glared up at the opaque skies.

The following Sunday, as the bells chimed in the tower above, Rupert Thorne lumbered up the stone-and-mortar steps of the Gotham Cathedral, a wool overcoat draped over one arm. An aide hoisted an umbrella over his head as Thorne spoke rapidly into his mobile phone; he only clicked it shut as he entered the centuries-old wooden doors and disappeared into the church. Two private security guards in black suits remained on the top step, staring angrily out at the dismal rain-soaked street from behind black sunglasses as an overhead train clattered along its route half a block away.

Inside the Cathedral, beneath a skyscraping ceiling, rain-streaked stained glass portrayals of miracles and famous Saints escorted Thorne as he slowly made his way down the aisle to a pew with two men sitting halfway down the nave. He awkwardly squeezed into the narrow wooden bench, adjusting his suit as he did so. The man nearest the aisle pulled a hymnal from the back of the bench in front of them and began flipping through it aimlessly.

Thorne cleared his throat and looked up at the crucifix. "When you said you'd rather have Smith than Gordon, I agreed because Gordon's the most self-righteous son of a bitch in this city. Now I'm thinking we should've dealt with that rather than this."

"It's been two weeks; have some patience," said Mayor Hill tersely. He adjusted his glasses and frowned down at the hymnal. "Maybe you should focus on what you can control instead of random violence."

"It's not random, Hill. You know who's doing this as well as I."

"Even better; I know when he'll attack next," added the third man in the pew as he crossed himself and leaned forward, pretending to pray. Temple Fugate checked his pocket watch. "I've studied the timing of the attacks on your business interests and the next one will be tomorrow morning."

"Your human stopwatch over there doesn't know if Penguin will actually show up at any of these attacks, does he?"

"I believe it is possible but unlikely. It makes more sense strategically to remain detached and maintain some plausible deniability." Fugate checked his watch again and stood. "The Mayor needs to be at an appearance with the Gotham Rotary in twenty-four minutes."

Hill took his cue and returned the hymnal to its place. Sliding along the pew towards the outside aisle where Fugate now lurked, he spoke over his shoulder towards his largest benefactor. "Smith'll take care of Penguin. We don't need Gordon."

Thorne pulled out a cigar, clipped the end, and lit it; rapid puffs of smoke filled the sanctuary as the end of the thick cigar turned orange. Thorne popped it out of his mouth. "Don't worry; if Smith can't, I know a guy who can."

* * *

The next attack came Monday morning—just as Fugate predicted—against a Thorne Appliances distribution center. The shift supervisor gave the company's owner a stammering recounting of the ransacking: Six men, all of them the size of football linemen, emerged from the back of a container truck at the loading docks, shot three workers (one operating a forklift) using machine gun fire. The staccato sound of rapid, semi-automatic gunfire shredded the hurried calm of the distribution center as workers abandoned their exposed positions and fled for the shelter and protection of control hubs and offices overlooking the massive industrial space below, where the attackers slowly advanced along conveyor belts. They halted the intricate, interwoven series of conveyors moving Thorne's products and began smashing boxes of goods arbitrarily. The shift supervisor recalled placing a call to the police and being dismissed as being hysterical, but that the police would dispatch a unit if one was in the area.

The shift supervisor admitted to Thorne he continued watching as the men continued their rampage through the distribution center for nearly a half hour. The leader of the group, who finally appraised their work and directed them back to the tractor trailer at the loading dock after forty-five minutes of wanton destruction, possessed a peculiar trait. Thorne—his face already ruby-shaded in anger—lifted the supervisor off his feet, a meaty hand crumpling the smaller man's collar, and growled a request for the supervisor to spit out the trait.

A metallic mallet for a hand. Thorne dropped the supervisor unceremoniously; he tumbled awkwardly. Thorne stalked out of the ruined distribution floor, kicking at debris with one foot as he punched a number into his phone.

* * *

That evening, in a prime time press conference broadcast across the city, Police Commissioner Smith strode onto a hastily-constructed set within the instantly recognizable Gothic GCPD Precinct downtown, the bullpen area crammed full with curious reporters and detectives who, like Alvarez, had been displaced from their desks. Jim Gordon leaned against a ceiling support as it arched down along the wall, shrouding himself in the shadows of the upper balcony. He could not see the podium, but the reverberations of microphone checks echoed easily in the minutes before Smith's appearance; Gordon could care less about looking at his boss while he spoke. It was the words that mattered. A stair squeaked and Gordon spun; Harvey took the last two steps in a theatrical tip-toe.

"Good evening, Gotham City," the Commissioner began solemnly. "It has been a trying week for all of us. It seems that—despite the courageous, tireless efforts of the brave men and women I have the honor of calling my brothers and sisters on this force—every day is marred by another senseless act of intimidation or violence against the innocent populace of the city."

Gordon couldn't help but roll his eyes at his former partner, who shook his head in resignation. Bullock leaned against the wall near Gordon's shoulder and adjusted his fedora. Below them, Smith continued to pander to the media. "It became readily apparent that the legitimate business holdings of Rupert Thorne were under systematic attack, highlighted by the brutal murder of a leasing agent at an apartment complex in Midtown. A young man, taking classes part-time at Gotham City College, hurled from a balcony on the fortieth floor—and for what?

"What does this sort of senseless violence accomplish? If the goal is intimidation and fear, the cowardly criminals responsible will not achieve success. Gotham CIty does not get intimidated by random acts of violence; it resists and fights back. We are a resilient city. The suffocating corruption that once smothered progress and freedoms in this city is being swept away. Our Mayor will continue to see to that. The previous administration could not keep this city safe. Need I remind everyone of the Joker attacks just months ago? Or the violent vigilante spawned by them? The so-called Batman?"

Bored at Smith's posturing, Gordon let his gaze wander around the precinct. He furrowed his brow, staring intently at a dark shadow enveloping a truss over their heads. As Gordon watched curiously, the shadow _moved_. The police captain stood up, elbowing Harvey. He hissed, "Up there."

"Holy crap, is that...?"

The shadow slowly turned its cowled head and raised a gloved finger to its lips. Bullock swallowed and mouthed an apology as the Batman looked back down to the press conference. Smith seemed to be gaining energy as he spoke.

"...no place for anything in Gotham City except the rule of law and adherence to the instructions of the Mayor's office and the GCPD. I can promise you that. Do you understand me, Gotham? Your safety is my number one priority and anyone who opposes that goal will suffer for it proportionally. That should not be taken as a threat, but as a promise."

"Who's been attacking Rupert Thorne's businesses, Commissioner? Do you have any leads?" called out a reporter from just below the railing. She held a recording device up towards the podium.

"While I cannot comment directly on ongoing investigations, I believe that in the interest of public safety I can disclose the following: we have reason to believe that Butch Gilzean, the former right-hand man of notorious mobster Oswald Cobblepot, may be a person of interest in the recent surge in violence against Rupert Thorne's business holdings—attacks I should emphasize that have placed innocent employees and citizens in the crossfire."

Another reporter made the logical next step. "It's long been rumored that Thorne has many below-board dealings; business ventures of questionable legality, some might say. Is this the start of an all-out mob war between Penguin and Thorne?"

"At this time, we have no credible leads suggesting Mr. Cobblepot is in anyway involved with any of the recent events previously mentioned." Smith shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as the reporters surged forward shouting follow-up questions.

"Commissioner Smith, so you're confirming for the record that Mr. Cobblepot has in fact been pardoned and released from Blackgate Prison?"

"Any inquiries about the inmate roster at Blackgate should be directed to their records office; similarly, inquiries about pardons should be submitted as information access requests to the Mayor's office."

"One was submitted last week; there's been no answer."

"Well, I certainly am not in a position to comment on the inner office workings of the Mayor's administrative staff.

Upstairs, Gordon shook his head. "This is unraveling fast."

Harvey nodded in agreement, his eyes flicking up to their visitor every few seconds. "That's an understatement. If he's not careful, they'll roast him like an overcooked turkey."

"...these attacks are part of a mob war between the remnants of Penguin's family under the control of Butch Gilzean and the massive, possibly illegal empire of Rupert Thorne?"

"Mr. Gilzean is simply a person of interest in this case. We believe talking with him would help us shed a considerable amount of light on the case. As for Mr. Thorne's business dealings..."

The reporter interrupted, flipping glossy black hair over her shoulder, a predatory glint in her eyes. "Which you never investigated as head of the White Collar Crimes Division."

Commissioner Smith flashed an uncertain smile. "We had an expansive portfolio of cases we were investigating at WCCD—and continue to look into. That's all the time I have tonight; again, the GCPD seeks any information on the whereabouts of Butch Gilzean in order to ascertain information on the recent spate of attacks. Thank you...thank you!"

A torrential downpour of shouted questions dogged Smith as he disappeared down the steps towards the back entrance to the precinct. Gordon and Bullock listened to his frantic footsteps retreat down the short set of steps to the back door. Jim glanced up at the tresses, but the Batman was gone.

"Hey, where'd he go? Did you see him leave?" Bullock asked pointedly, realizing the absence a moment after Gordon.

The police captain gave a wry smile. "You never do. He just...goes."

Bullock tugged the fedora forward over his brow and shuffled down the stairs. "Well, that's just creepy."

* * *

Two weeks after the Penguin began targeting any and all elements of Rupert Thorne's underworld connections, a cold front passed through the city. Icicles dangled from gutters; windows of shops frosted over and sparkled in the yellow cones cast by streetlights. Gothamites trying to brave the cold for a night on the town shivered under heavy wool coats, tightly wound scarves, and thick mittens. For Selina Kyle, the opportunity to surreptitiously slip a hand into the deep pocket of a bulky overcoat while waiting for the light to go at an intersection could not go unheeded. Slipping back into a different crowd of people as she moved up the street instead of crossing with her prey, she clutched the wallet with gloved fingers inside her own leather jacket pocket; a smirk played across cheeks reddened by the bitter cold.

A hand ghosted across the small of her back as somebody a head taller than her melded to her side. Hot breath tickled her ear. "Can we not just have one night out where you're not stealing and I'm not fighting?"

The smirk fluidly transformed into a challenging appraisal as the young woman twisted to look up at her escort. "Apparently not."

"Shame," Bruce Wayne retorted. "And I had such high hopes for tonight."

"So I'm already a disappointment? Usually a girl doesn't expect to hear that until much, much later after she's had some fun as the tease."

Her boyfriend pressed a kiss to the hollow just behind her ear, wrapped an arm around her waist. "I think we're a bit past that."

Selina purred contentedly, but quickly frowned as Bruce steered them out of the flow of people towards an unassuming black paneled door. "We're never going to be past coercing me into creepy places. Where are we going?"

Defensive, Bruce scoffed. "When have I ever coerced you into a creepy place?"

"Hello? Arkham, last fall?"

"You followed—you didn't even know it was me!"

"Don't fight me on this, Wayne." Selina arched an eyebrow expectantly, eliciting a resigned sigh.

"Fine; it's just a speakeasy. Relax."

"Huh." Bruce knocked on the locked door and waited for somebody to let them in. Selina crossed her arms and leaned against the grimy brick of the building. "So, this speakeasy. It's nice?"

"I've never been here," Bruce began earnestly. The door creaked open and a hostess in a gold sequin dress from a bygone era leaned out. He extracted a money clip from the breast pocket of his overcoat and pressed two one hundred dollar bills into the woman's hand as they stepped into a poorly lit, narrow hall and escaped the bone-chilling night air for an only slightly warmer, poorly insulated interior. "But with this high a cover it better be."

The hostess guided them through a thick mauve drape, down two creaky steps, and around a corner to another nondescript black door. She plucked two cocktail menus from a built-in shelf, glancing back to make sure Bruce and Selina didn't get lost in the narrow hall. She smiled and pushed open the door. "This way."

Selina stepped through the doorway—and felt as if she'd been transported to a different era. A three-piece jazz band played softly on a circular stage in one corner; the massive bar dominated an entire wall of the establishment, shimmering mirrors playing tricks with depth perception behind what had to be hundreds of different liquors. She flicked her gaze upwards: the richly colored, padded ceiling dampened the myriad conversations rising into the air. Evenly spaced chandeliers dangled above the small glossed wood tables. The hostess pivoted and swept her arm out, presenting a circular booth in the corner nearest the stage. Bruce tugged Selina's jacket from her shoulders as she began to slide into the booth; her cheeks flushed at the slip in etiquette as she wriggled out of it and let him hang it on the hook next to their booth. His overcoat joined her leather one as he slid along the leather next to her.

Comfortably ensconced in the middle of the curved booth, they accepted the cocktail menus from the hostess who disappeared with a swish of her dress. Bruce wrapped an arm around Selina's shoulders and surveyed the speakeasy as she studied the cocktail list. He leaned in close to speak into her ear over the saxophone, piano, and bass.

"You shouldn't be embarrassed at all."

Without looking up, Selina flipped the rigid page of the menu from 'bourbons' to 'gins,' and replied, "People are always watching you. Can't wait to find out what they write about me tomorrow."

"Nothing true," Bruce said softly. "Besides, what would they write if they knew what I usually wore when I went out at night?"

"Probably that not everything is a black tie event." Selina frowned, her finger tapping on the menu. "That drink isn't $30 is it?"

"Not bad for that old of a Scotch." Bruce studied the other elements of the drink. "Sounds intriguing."

His date tried to stifle a disbelieving laugh, shaking her head. "Somehow I shouldn't be surprised by now, but I am."  
A waiter appeared with a practiced smile. "Something to drink?" After a moment's hesitation, they ordered and handed over the menus—Bruce selecting a scotch-centric cocktail and Selina making an herbal and citrus gin selection. The waiter retreated to place the order at the bar as Bruce rejoined their interrupted conversation.

"Why are you making a big deal about how much the drinks are in this place? It doesn't matter."

"Does too!"

"You're wearing earrings, a necklace, and outfit that cumulatively cost more than what half of Gotham's workers make in a year. Yet a drink is too expensive."

"I didn't _pay_ for the earrings or the necklace," Selina rationalized dryly. "And you bought me the outfit."

"That's mischaracterizing what happened."

The young woman cocked her head, leaning away from her boyfriend to train disbelieving emerald eyes at his contentious expression. "I distinctly remember you standing in line among eight or nine women in the store—which was hilarious, I should add."

"Only because you were about to shoplift it!" Bruce hissed as his lips twitched towards a smile. "I was saving you the embarrassment of being...no, no, Selina. I'm not challenging you to anything."

"You don't think I would've gotten away with it?!"

"Besides the point!"

"Bruce?" a gravelly voice asked, cutting through a half rest in the jazz band's song before the drummer resumed _tsk_ ing on the hi-hat. Bruce and Selina snapped their heads in a moment of startling synchronicity, catching the man off-guard. He blinked and seemed to recoil slightly. Broad-shouldered and slightly hunched forward, he possessed a rugged handsomeness either enhanced or marred by a slightly misshapen nasal bridge between thick eyebrows. "I thought that was you."

"Uh, Tommy? Really?"

The young man nodded, arm slipping around the girl standing next to him possessively. "Yeah, I knew you were back, obviously, but hadn't seen you. It's been a long time."

"Fourteen years and change," Bruce replied tersely, his spine stiff.

An awkward silence lingered as the pianist began to join the percussionist in the new tune. Simultaneously, the waiter returned with their drinks and Bruce's old acquaintance made his excuses and left them alone in the booth.

Selina hoisted her coupe, stirring the slightly frothy drink with the peel of lemon floating on top. She sipped it, nodding appreciatively. "I think somebody may have punched him in the face a long time ago. He seemed very punchable."

"I did. Felt surprisingly good." Bruce took a drink calmly as Selina set hers down and gawked at him. He furrowed his brow. "Why the surprise?"

"I feel like I would've remembered you punching someone." She winked. "You didn't gain an appetite for that until just recently.

"It was a long time ago—before we met."

Concern flashed in Selina's eyes; they narrowed. "Be...before your parents?"

"No, after. He tried to bully me. I...I punched him in the face with a watch. Several times."

"Which explains the broken nose." She squeezed his arm, trying to lighten the mood. "Even for a scrawny rich kid, you had a decent hook."

Bruce arched an eyebrow. "'Had?'"

"You couldn't lay a hand on me if you tried."

He slipped a hand along her jaw, rubbing light circles on her cheek; she leaned into it and Bruce closed the distance between them, whispering at the last moment, "Busted."

"Bruce Wayne! Weren't we just saying we need to get together?"

"You're kidding me," the billionaire griped under his breath, eliciting a small laugh and a peck from Selina. Bruce turned to the newcomer and faked a smile. "Harvey Dent."

The attorney slid into the booth uninvited, tumbler in hand, and made room for his date. "Mind if we join you?"

"Actually, yes," Selina replied bluntly, fierceness bristling her tone. "We were enjoying a quiet night out. By ourselves?"

Dent smoothed his parted black hair before extending a slightly greased hand. "I'm not positive we've made acquaintances, miss...?" His eyes bounced between Bruce's and Selina's in hopes of an answer.

"Harvey, this is my girlfriend, Selina. Selina, Harvey Dent. Special Counsel to the Mayor. I don't know her."

"My other half." Dent squeezed her knee without properly introducing her. His eyes lit up. "Hey, did you hear?"

"Hear what?" Bruce asked irritably.

Dent leaned in close, resting the half-full tumbler on the table, whispering for effect. "The Mayor's going to recommend the Commissioner put out warrants for Gilzean and Cobblepot—for the whole gamut. Conspiracy, racketeering, murder, assault, destruction of property; you name it, they'll get it."

Harvey sat back, a cocky smirk on his face. The look of superiority faltered slightly when he realized Bruce was not impressed at the scoop, quickly replaced with indignation. The lighting of the stage changed and the side of his body closest to Wayne fell into darkness. "You're not surprised."

"No, I am. Just not sure why you felt the need to tell me."

The lawyer's indignation deteriorated into anger at being dismissed so calmly by the young businessman. "You know what? Forget it. I was trying to build some trust; it's clear you don't care about me, or this city, and the Mayor won't stand for that. You're only out for yourself, Wayne. You don't care about anything except your company's profits." He sneered I bet she's not even your girlfriend. How much did he pay you, uh, Selina, was it—what the?!"

He sputtered and wiped the sting of alcohol out of his eyes as Selina's beverage cascaded down his face and onto his pristine charcoal suit. Without waiting, Bruce nudged her out of the booth and hurriedly grabbed their coats. Patrons at the tables around them hastily pulled out their mobile phones, trying to sneak a picture or two of the dramatic evening unfolding inside the speakeasy. Bruce placed his arm around Selina's waist, guiding her out of the lounge and into the cold corridor; they emerged on the street moments later.

"Why'd you make us leave?" She protested hotly, slipping into her leather jacket as Bruce called Alfred and walked towards the corner. "We could've taken him."

"That's exactly the point!" Bruce replied in a hiss, looping a scarf around his neck and tugging it snug. "The last thing people need to take pictures of is Bruce Wayne and his beautifully dangerous girlfriend in a bar fight with the Mayor's personal attorney."

Selina rolled her eyes. "You might have a point." A poster in the doorway of the closed shop nearest them on the sidewalk caught her attention and she stared intently at it. On the side street behind her, a perfectly clean Rolls-Royce pulled up to the curb.

With a harried glance back towards the crowd spilling out of the speakeasy onto the sidewalk—Tommy Elliott among them—Bruce guided Selina into the backseat of the car and slammed the door. Her focus, though, as she cuddled up against him and tuned out his rambling about being responsible citizens, rested solely on the announcement from the window: in the next week, the Jewelry Gallery would be receiving a Faberge egg on loan from St. Petersburg for a spring exhibit.

It sounded like an interesting date night activity, marveling at the priceless piece. But if Bruce wanted to pass, well...Selina smirked. She'd just have to arrange for her own private viewing.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Well, well. What have we here? A new chapter?! No way! To the guest reviewer **Decoy** , of course I'm continuing this! **Byz** , you're still awesome-as always. Future chapters will come quicker with reviews, but regardless, a huge thank you to everyone who reads/follows/favs/reviews this and all the other awesome stories here.

I don't own 'Batman' or 'Gotham.'

INAUGURATION +27

The security guard working the checkpoint inside the thick double-doored entrance to Arkham Asylum's main building wiped his fingers on his black trousers. His palm, greasy from the quarter-pound burger and sea-salted fries that constituted his lunch, rose from the drab green trouser and depressed the buzzer, allowing the man in the lobby to enter the administrative wing. He rubbed a wrist across his nose and sniffed before returning to his meal, the suit-clad man disappearing behind the thick door.

Bruce Wayne tugged at his cuffs as he left the lobby behind and wound his way through the offices of Arkham to a large conference room on the outer wall. Six double-paned windows offered expansive views of the Bay behind the fenceline of the Asylum, its fetch-made whitecaps rolling out towards the ocean at the bidding of a stiff wind. Five other members of the Board sat around the table already; only two empty seats remained. Wayne smiled, embarrassed.

"Sorry I'm late."

"Nonsense, Bruce," admonished Dr. Leslie Thompkins—the most recognizable of the Board members. "You're right on time; we're just absurdly early.

"Or we work here," added another Board member, his patchy beard as steely grey as his thinning hair.

"Even still, I do not wish to keep you all waiting on my behalf. I'm hardly the most important member of the Board."

"No, you've only donated over half our operating budget over the last five months," replied an elderly woman as she stared out the windows. Her sarcasm elicited a round of chuckles and Bruce flushed as he took his seat.

"You all do good work here, and after the Joker's attempt to release all the inmates, I thought it important to ensure Arkham remained open. Warden, did you you want to call the meeting to order?"

"Um, sure." The Warden, crammed uncomfortably into his chair at the head of the table, looked around and nodded. "Seeing as we are still without a ranking in-house medical officer, and all other members of the Arkham Board being present, I call this quarterly meeting to order. On today's docket: budget report from the treasurer; inmate transfer reviews; hiring actions; and finally, a six-month review of Mr. Bolton's performance as head of internal security. Are there any additional topics the Board wishes to cover today?...hearing none, we move to the first item: the budget report. Neil?"

The Board member with the patchy beard withdrew a pair of ancient reading glasses and placed them at the end of his nose as he began reading figures from the current budget report. Bruce leaned back in his chair and, despite outwardly seeming to pay rapturous attention to the confirmation that Arkham was barely staying afloat and direly needed an increase in city funding, his thoughts lay elsewhere.

The previous night's confrontations with Tommy Elliott and Harvey Dent weighed heavily on his mind throughout the morning and the traffic-riddled drive from downtown out to Arkham. Now, seated in the conference room at the Asylum, they bubbled up once more. He supposed it was too much to hope for a simple, peaceful night out with Selina (in his most honest moments, Bruce could not deny they seemed to attract danger and adversity more than two twenty-somethings ought to), but the confrontations at the speakeasy defied logic. He regretted not being able to discuss Tommy's appearance more with Selina; her refusal to mince words or tip-toe around difficult topics was one of the things he most admired in her. So, despite giving the abbreviated version of their history—sans strange medical connections between rich Gotham families—Bruce knew making sense of his coincidental reappearance would have to wait until he could bring it up again.

Nevertheless, as his gaze drifted away from the treasurer and out to Gotham Bay, Bruce felt his reminiscing shift from their first visitor to their final one: Harvey Dent. The attorney certainly did not lack for charisma, publicity, or confidence. Yet Wayne had not seen him since the Inauguration, so the interruption in a private speakeasy seemed either a random attempt by Dent to ingratiate himself to a potential donor for future political ambitions, or a prelude to something urgent—trying to build goodwill and support for some of Hill's initiatives, perhaps?

The first possibility had merit in Bruce's mind, if only because prior to Hill's election, they only time he saw Dent was at fundraisers or other quasi-political gatherings. Since his return to Gotham the previous fall, by Bruce's account he attended six fundraisers or dinners thrown by candidates of either party (often with exorbitant ticket prices). All six were at Alfred's insistent prodding that he be seen attempting to influence Gotham in a legal fashion in conjunction with his less publicly attributable efforts to clean up his hometown.

Dent tried to make small talk at five of them; Bruce ignored his attempts. Usually, there were other members of the Gotham business community at the black tie events, and Bruce could seek out their cordial company to discuss market fluctuations or various laws and taxes being considered in Gotham or Metropolis or any of a dozen other major markets. At the inauguration, however, he could not avoid Harvey. Luckily, Jim Gordon arrived in time to spare Bruce the pained small talk required of all politicians...not that the billionaire ever considered himself in that category, but Dent certainly qualified, and the attorney did little to hide his bald ambition for greater and greater positions in the Gotham City government.

It was this ambition that lent credence to the second possibility: that Dent approaching Bruce while he and Selina were clearly on a date had more to do with trying to co-opt Bruce for Hamilton Hill's agenda than it did with trying to cultivate their relationship so he could ask Bruce for campaign donations in the future. More pointedly, Bruce wondered with a frown, who really put the recommendation in Dent's ear that Bruce Wayne would be a powerful ally: Hamilton Hill, or the Mayor's biggest benefactor: Rupert Thorne? Thorne's equally brusque approach at the inauguration suggested he had an interest in Bruce's support, but a piece of Bruce doubted himself, wondering if maybe he was overthinking it. It would be a natural course of action for the brand new mayor to have his general counsel reach out to one of Gotham's most powerful and historically-relevant families; moreover, Wayne Enterprises comprised the largest percentage of Gotham's economy of any business in the city. So maybe Dent just wanted to set the stage for future collaboration on economic plans or some other initiative at Hill's behest.

Bruce vaguely heard the treasurer wrap up their discussion of the Asylum's finances and brought himself back to the table's conversation. His last lingering feeling on the subject of Dent, Hill, and Thorne, however, was that nothing Dent or Hill did came independent of Thorne's advice. The feeling was hardly reassuring.

The Warden thanked the treasurer for his contributions. "The next item on the docket today is the six month evaluation of Lyle Bolton's performance as our chief of security here at Arkham. I'd like to personally address this item, if you all don't mind.

"Mr. Bolton joined us shortly after leaving the short-lived Strike Force upon its disbanding. He exhibited passion and determination to reform the Asylum during his interview, speaking in no uncertain terms about wishing to make this institution better. For too many years, Arkham languished without the proper city funding, a dwindling endorsement, and lackadaisical enforcement of our rules and regulations. Mr. Bolton's stated commitment to enforcing the rules and imposing order on what had been a lawless inmate group appealed to me."

"It sounds like there's a 'but,' though," Dr. Thompkins said as the Warden took a breath. He nodded.

"There's a 'but.' But I didn't expect his zeal to manifest so quickly. We're not complete with renovations yet and he's already submitting grants to the state and federal governments for money to get new equipment that he feels will keep the inmates from attempting any future riots or escapes. And there are times his methods walk the fine line between stringent and cruel."

"What sort of equipment?" Bruce asked with a frown.

"Well, his first requests were simple enough: flexicuffs, extendible batons, the like. But recently he's requested a version of pepper spray so virulent it's outlawed in 50 countries as a chemical weapon and a brand new electric shock baton that very nearly didn't make it to the open market."

"Why not?" asked another board member.

"Because two of the test subjects nearly died from only a single shock."

The table swallowed collectively; members glanced around uneasily. Bruce leaned forward, intertwining his fingers. "You're afraid if left unchecked, Lyle Bolton will pose a threat to the inmates of Arkham Asylum."

"I think he already might be one," exclaimed the Warden. "He doesn't differentiate between somebody who's here because they're mentally unstable and committed a violent crime and those that are only trying to get mental help in a constructive environment. That's dangerous."

"'Dangerous?' It's reckless and a liability. Even if he'd argue that he's the head of security and not a counselor or responsible for the mental health of inmates, as an employee of the Asylum, he had to sign something to that effect. Don't you have it in writing?"

"Your concern is shared, Dr. Thompkins, but I brought this issue up to solicit all of your recommendations."

"You're not going to fire him?" Wayne asked incredulously.

"That is one recommendation I'll consider," allowed the Warden slowly. "But I'm inclined to keep him on. Are there other suggestions?"

Leslie frowned, mulling over an idea. She opened and closed her mouth, debating whether to speak. Bruce raised his eyebrows in her direction, encouraging her to voice her idea. She swallowed. "What if you hired a more assertive Chief Medical Officer?"

"Like who?"

"Dr. Hugo Strange."

"The psychologist?"

"And my partner at the Clinic. One and the same," confirmed Leslie.

"Dr. Thompkins, does he have any prior experience in an environment such as this?" asked Bruce, injecting himself into the conversation. "I thought most of his work was with youth."

"It has been, but he wrote a journal series on mental health concerns just prior to joining me in opening the Clinic; his speaking engagements in support of those articles were extremely well-received in the community, for what that's worth."

"So you think he has the demeanor to deal with both Bolton and the inmates? A Chief Medical Officer who won't let Bolton run roughshod over the population here would be a 'must.'"

"It's worth reaching out to him, absolutely. Obviously I can't promise he'll accept."

"Of course not," the Warden conceded quickly. He shrugged and flipped the page of his notes on the subject. "Very well. If you pass me his information, I will reach out soon."

* * *

The instructions always said to not bring a city-owned government vehicle—and Harvey Dent supposed that directive held merit for several reasons: first, he knew it would look suspicious if he continued checking cars out of the motor pool and driving them to the seedier side of Gotham; second, most cab drivers in the city couldn't tell one suit from another, so he was, for all intents and purposes, invisible.

Third, if Rupert Thorne insisted on something, there was no arguing with it. And Rupert Thorne did not want a government-plated car within a mile of his main import-export complex. Thus, Dent jammed a $20 bill into the small pay slot built into the bulletproof divider between the driver and his passenger in the rear seat and stepped out of the black-and-white checkered cab onto a litter-ridden sidewalk.

He glared up at the dented aluminum warehouse as a hired gun pushed open a door off to the side; the large man moved out of Den'ts way and waved him into the warehouse. "He's in the back."

"I figured as much," Dent replied tersely. He maneuvered around stacked pallets and wound past several cacophonic conveyor belts. Harvey took a metal staircase two steps at a time; on the landing, he paused to catch his breath. The respite wa short-lived.

"Harvey! Glad you could make it," Thorne stood in the doorway to his office waving the lawyer forward with a meaty hand. The boss disappeared into the office as Dent followed cautiously. The office stood in gross contrast to the warehouse surrounding it: a thick Oriental rug covered the floor, Thorne's enormous desk dominated the space leaving barely enough room for two perfectly upholstered chairs, one on either side of the centerpiece.

"Interesting place," Dent said dryly, looking around. "Why the charade?"

"I like my privacy when I'm discussing delicate matters. The penthouse is fine for entertaining, but nobody can eavesdrop here!"

"And what are you wanting to talk about sans eavesdroppers?"

Thorne pulled open a drawer, withdrew two cigars. Dent leaned forward, taking one as Thorne clipped the ends. After both cigars were lit, the two men each relaxed into their chairs. Smoke lingered between them, lazily swirling throughout the office. Thorne squinted through the haze. "I wanted to talk about your ambitions."

"Ambitions for what?"

"Don't play dumb with me, son." Thorne waved his cigar in the air dismissively. "You don't make the career choices you have without an end goal in mind. So, I'll ask you again: where do you see your career going?"

Dent frowned angrily. "That's why you dragged me all the way out here? To ask about my career aspirations? You could have asked me that over dinner downtown."

"Answer the question, Dent, or you won't be able to go out to dinner downtown again. I could always leak those tapes of you wailing on that hapless consierge at the Gotham Arms, or the recording of you berating that salesperson. And how would those affect your standing in Gotham? There's a reason I brought you out here. We need to have a frank conversation, and you're going to show me how far you're willing to go to achieve what you want. I can make any of it happen. Do you understand that?"

"I understand that you came to me and asked me to be Hill's personal counsel, and that I could have declined. But you try and threaten me again and I'll be gone."

"No you won't," Thorne insisted. "Because you know as well as I do that Hill's easily replaceable, and you're in a prime position to be the next in line. It certainly won't be Fugate. So I need to know how far you're willing to go to prove you're the future of my city. And that's why I brought you out here." The massive Thorne stood up. "Follow me."

The pair adjourned from the office and descended to the warehouse floor. Thorne squeezed between equipment, often with no space to spare, as Dent trailed in his wake. A bodyguard ambled along behind Dent. The trio arrived at an automatic door leading onto the dock behind the warehouse; Thorne actuated the door and led them outside.

"I've got something for you, Harvey." Thorne withdrew a shiny object from his pocket and flipped it to Dent.

"A quarter?"

"A challenge to prove your loyalty." Thorne gestured and two men dragged a third out from behind the warehouse. They shoved the prisoner to his knees in front of Dent. "He works for Penguin. Flip it. If it lands heads—kill him."

Dent's head whipped around to gawk at Thorne. "What?!"

"If we let him go, Penguin will know where my office is. That's not acceptable. So, kill him."

"I don't have anything—" The bodyguard produced a revolver, interrupting Dent's objection. "Right. Heads, huh?"

"If it lands tails, I guess we'll let him go."

Dent gritted his teeth and flipped the coin. As it spun slowly in front of his eyes, the unique nature of the coin became apparent, but he knew it was too late to turn back now. The coin landed in his palm; he leveled the revolver.

And fired.


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Hello all! I know it's been a long time, but I haven't forgotten about this. To give an obvious answer to guest **Charlie's** comment, yes I am going to update this! Future updates are up to you all, however: the last couple updates did not garner any feedback, which makes it difficult to find the motivation to write. I love Gotham (how amazing has S4 been so far?!) and have some great plans for this story, so if you feel inspired, please leave a review or message!

I'm doing something cheesy to start, since it's been six months. Hope it refreshes everyone's memory!

* * *

PREVIOUSLY ON GOTHAM

Inside the prison, two bewildered guards stopped in front of the longest tenured member of solitary confinement. The older of the two fiddled with his key ring, found the proper key, and inserted it into the keyhole. The two-inch thick iron door swung inward, revealing a disheveled inmate curled up on a concrete cot, his black and white jumpsuit hanging loosely off his emaciated frame. Jet black hair, part of it plastered to the inmate's forehead, but most of it exploding outward in all directions rose from a lumpy pillow.

"What do you want?"

The old guard scratched his neck and shrugged. The younger guard lobbed a duffel bag filled with the inmate's own clothes onto the floor in front of the cot. "You, I guess."

The driver of the van placed the shifter in 'PARK.' He drummed thick fingers along the wheel, trying not to be nervous. After ten minutes of waiting, he finally stepped out of the van and shut the door, leaning against the vehicle as the engine continued to wheeze and rattle. Finally, a door across the courtyard opened and two guards emerged, flanking a third figure. The center figure limped slowly across the dark courtyard. When they were about fifteen feet from the van, the guards stopped. Their hands fell to their weapons as the inmate shuffled forward a bit further into the light, eyes squinting in surprise.

"B...Butch?"

The large man flashed a toothy grin and nodded his head. "Been waitin' for you, boss. Welcome back."

Oswald Cobblepot blinked fiercely, determined not to cry. He drew himself as upright as he could and met his right-hand man's rapturous look. "Yes, welcome back indeed."

* * *

As Barbara hoisted her backpack onto her shoulders, Jim waited by the door mulling the morning's developments. Leslie stood and escorted them out to the lobby; as they approached the small room, Gordon saw a young stunning blonde-haired woman sitting in one of the two waiting chairs. Her foot bopped up and down to an invisible beat known only to her and she loudly smacked a piece of bubble gum. Upon seeing Doctor Thompkins enter, however, she hastily extracted the gum and dropped it in the trash next to her seat. Jumping up with an enthusiasm for meeting someone Jim could never remember possessing in his early twenties, the young woman smiled brilliantly.

"Gee, it's really you, ain't it? Doc Thompkins in the flesh. I'm sooo excited to meet you and the Professor. When I saw the internship announcement on campus, I thought, 'Puddin, that's something you can't pass up, no way no how!' So here I am!"

Jim cast an incredulous glance at his ex-wife, who to her credit merely winked at him and turned her attention to the prospective intern. The doctor smiled warmly and gestured for the young woman to follow her back to her office, leaving Jim and Barbara to find their way out past the burly guard.

"She sure had a lot of energy," commented Barbara as they descended the steps to the street.

* * *

"Starting tonight, we take back Gotham. I did everything I could to keep us functioning as a crime family while I was in Blackgate, as I had to remind you all, and now that our former mayor was gracious enough to pardon me, it is time to renew this once-great city with us at the top..." Penguin's lip quivered and he slammed his cane down on the wood floor.

"...I saw a leather-clad woman with a whip fending off a handful of security guards before doing a swan dive off the top of a building in the Narrows." Zsasz shrugged. "Thought you might want to know Ms. Galavan was still alive and very much kicking."

Cobblepot's face reddened instantly, muscles in his neck straining behind the crisp collar. He closed his eyes momentarily and swallowed. "Thank you, Victor. I think it's time everyone left. NOW!" Heavy chairs scraped against the floor as the underbosses still living shoved each other out of the way attempting to get out of the mansion. Within moments, only the peculiar assassin and Butch were left keeping Oswald company in the confines of his father's home. The killer reassembled his weapon and slipped it back into his armpit. He slowly made for the front door.

"And Victor?" Oswald called after him, a brutal undertone lacing his words. Zsasz paused dramatically with his hand on the door knob. Penguin stood and leaned forward, both hands spread out on the marble table. "I want Tabitha's head."

"You'll have it."

* * *

Selina's head snapped back and forth as she tip-toed across the creaking, floorboard-missing living room of the ancient mansion. The ceiling sent crumbles down like snowflakes as she hopped over a particularly wide gap and landed harder than she intended. She crept into the darkened kitchen, the only light coming from a pair of candles placed in the center of the grimy tile of the island. Large shutters covered the windows and cobwebs decorated the corners of the doorways and the undersides of shelves.

She wound around the island to a set of swinging doors, her back to the candlelight as a figure appeared from a back staircase, tall and lithe, once-silky black hair now messily secured in a bun.

"Not another step, kitty," a voice purred, its threatening edge blunted by Selina's lack of concern. An exhausted, once confidently beautiful face peered out at the young woman. "What do you want?"

"A new wardrobe, Tabby." She smirked over her shoulder as the disgraced former assassin-turned-socialite-turned-gangster-turned-fugitive sat down at the table and arched an eyebrow. "Less denim, more leather." Selina pushed open the doors, admiring the pantry filled with various stabbing implements and one large weapon, coiled in upon itself on a high shelf. "Among other things..."

* * *

INAUGURATION +30

Barbara Gordon hated mittens. What was the point of wearing something that prohibited you from being able to type or use your fingers? Nevertheless, she kept them in her pockets as she waited for her mother to arrive; loitering inside the glass set of double doors at the entrance helped mitigate the biting cold. Sitting cross-legged on the marble floor, her laptop resting on knobby knees, Barbara's fingers moved diligently over the keyboard, her eyes twitching from line of code to line of code.

A car horn squeaked in the loop outside the doors, startling Barbara. She looked out the glass, muttered under her breath, and slammed the laptop screen shut. The red-haired girl stuffed the battered laptop in her bookbag among three notebooks, a couple folders, and a math textbook. She zipped up her coat, swung the bag over both shoulders, and pushed open the doors. Barbara hurried down the wide stone steps, hands clenched into fists inside her pockets gripping the knitted mittens. She tugged on the rear passenger door of her mother's car, shrugging off the bookbag and slinging it across the seat.

"Careful, honey," Lee admonished. "Your father won't buy you another laptop."

"But he didn't buy this one; it was a discard from work."

"Barbara..."

"Okay fine, I know what you mean." The girl stared out the window as they slowly worked their way through busy afternoon traffic. "How was the clinic today, Mom?"

"It was busy, like always, but good. It's going to be a challenge when Dr. Strange leaves, and it's just me as the sole doctor."

Barbara glanced back into the car, narrowing her eyes at her mom. "Where's he going?"

"The Board at Arkham approved him to become the new Chief Medical Officer there, starting next month. So he'll be leaving soon."

"Arkham's that place with the crazy people? Makes sense. He's kinda weird."

Leslie laughed in spite of herself. "Thank you for that assessment, Barbara."

The doctor pulled up to the curb outside a brick townhouse with a rusted metal bannister and crumbling concrete window sills. Leslie twisted around in her seat, fixing Barbara with a concerned stare.

"What, Mom?"

"I'll be back promptly at 6 to pick you up, okay?" Don't walk down the street, go exploring—"

"And whatever I do, don't talk to strangers," finished Barbara. "I know, Mom. I won't go anywhere except Ms. Harleen's."

The young girl grabbed the strap of her backpack before sliding out of the car. She adjusted the straps over her shoulders and, in a moment of nervousness, plumbed the depths of her pockets for her mittens. She peeked up and down the sidewalk to see when she could cross the steady stream of pedestrians and commuters scurrying along the sidewalk to the nearby elevated train station. With the sedan still idling at the curb, Barbara hurried through a gap in groups of Gothamites and carefully took the steep steps to the front door.

Her trepidation arriving for the third time paled when she recalled the near-paralyzing fear from the very first time she and Leslie made the climb over the winter, icicles dripping down along the metal rail like a menacing set of chimes. It'd taken two weeks of routine nightmares for Jim and Lee to agree upon finding someone for Barbara to talk to about her ordeals at the hands of the Joker. And after a brief discussion, there was only one person they felt would be able to relate to their daughter's plight.

Barbara rang the doorbell; a faint sound whispered back, putting her slightly more at ease. The door opened, revealing a smiling face framed by straight blonde hair.

"Hiya, Barbie...Hey, Doc!" Harleen Quinzel, medical student, waved at the car as it pulled away from the curb. "Come on in, squirt, and let's chat."

* * *

The cold outside seeped through every crack in the rotting walls, eliciting a shiver from Selina. Her host, clearly used to this inconvenience, sat impervious. Selina tugged her leather jacket tighter around her shoulders.

"Did you ever consider repairing anything in this place?"

"Why? Nobody else was coming to visit," retorted Tabitha Galavan, tugging a heavy cloak around her own body and shrugging. "It was supposed to be an abandoned property, not a place for entertaining."

"But just for, like, basic living needs. I mean, I've stayed in some cold places, but this is ridiculous." Selina patted the leather suit wrapped in yellowed newspaper, its rips and tears from her last outing . "Look, Tabby, if you don't have anything else to offer, I'll just go."

"Well, since you won't listen to me about this stupid idea of yours—"

"It's not stupid!"

"You're trying to swipe a Fabergé egg! There's like fifty in the world, or something, and you want to steal one. Why?"

Selina bristled, green eyes narrowing fiercely. "Because I want it? Because I'm tired of people telling me what I can and cannot do, or what's proper. I'm the best thief in Gotham; it's about time I reminded everyone."

"So this is what?" Tabitha turned up a palm. "The result of some disagreement with Bruce? An excuse to get a thrill? I thought I'd taught you to be more mature than that, to not let others dictate your decisions."

"I do make my own decisions."

"There's a difference, Selly, between making good decisions and being hard-headed."

The brunette stood up angrily, slamming her present into the lumpy cushions of the couch. "Don't...call me that."

"Fine. But don't come back here expecting to lick your wounds if it goes wrong and you need a place to lie low."

Glowering, Selina inhaled and exhaled twice before stalking across the living room towards the front entrance. The door shut behind Selina, and she stood rigid on the rotting wood porch of the decrepit mansion. The hard late winter wind whistled across the yard, shaking overgrown shrubbery and barely-living oak trees. The bare branches crackled angrily. Selina cast a suspicious gaze into the night-shrouded recesses of the yard; an owl hooted, invisible. Furious at Tabitha's bluntness, she stormed down the cracked stone of the walk; a creaky gate swung open and Selina hurried down the street towards a car parked around the corner out of sight.

* * *

Victor Zsasz watched the young woman stalk away from the house. He casually stepped out from behind an elm tree in the yard opposite Tabitha's hideaway, smiling.

"Well, what do you know?"

He pulled open the same creaky gate, silently alighting to the porch. Without knocking, he opened the door, left hand drawing a pistol from his under-arm holster in the same movement. Zsasz stepped into the foyer—and a floorboard creaked.

"Coming back, tail between your legs?" Tabitha called out bitterly, studying her fingernails.

"Mmm, not exactly, Tigress," Zsasz confessed. He took aim; fired two shots without looking...into an empty chair. He frowned. "Could've sworn you were sitting right there."

"I was," Tabitha snarled in his ear. She slashed her hand across his wrist, knocking the gun to the wood in a clattering of metal; her opposite hand snapped towards his neck—

Zsasz blocked the strike with his forearm, redirecting her attack away from his head even as his left elbow drove into her stomach. She grunted, doubling over slightly, but took the opportunity to draw a knife from her boot. As she straightened, Tabitha slashed the blade through the musty darkness, meeting resistance from Victor's coat. The sharp edge easily pierced the wool, tearing through it as Victor dodged backwards—

Only to have his foot catch the edge of a broken floorboard. Zsasz windmilled his arms for a long second, then, with a dry snap of rotted wood, plunged into the basement.

* * *

Selina reached into her jacket pocket, withdrawing a key fob. She depressed the small button with a key imprinted in white; a shrill beep pierced the night. Pulling open the door, she looked around warily, worrying her lip. Closing her eyes, she slammed both hands on the hood of the sports car.

Her eyes snapped open. She shouldn't be able to slam her hands on anything while holding her suit.

"Crap!"

* * *

Zsasz brushed dirt off of his sleeves as he stood up, glancing up at the spots of dark gray in the dark of the ceiling. He drew his second pistol and moved step-by-laborious-step towards a narrow stair several feet away. With each step, he tracked his gun back and forth from hole to hole in the flooring above his head. His free hand wiped blood from his lip.

A creak on the stairs arrested his steps. Zsasz hurried to aim his pistol through the darkness. He tried to lean, taking an inquiring look at his only way out of the basement. A hopeful thought that the sound was only a characteristic sound of an old house; it flickered and disappeared, replaced by his survival instinct. Carefully, he began to ascend, one stair at a time, taking as wide a route as possible to clear the higher steps. Zsasz paused at the top of the stairs, glancing hesitantly into the kitchen. Tabitha was nowhere in sight.

Victor stepped onto the landing and winced at a loud creak. The wince did not last more than a moment, however, as a sense of foreboding washed over him. He dove across the kitchen just as a sword descended swiftly through the place his body occupied a moment before. Somersaulting behind the island, Zsasz flexed his hand the pistol grip of his weapon.

Tabitha prowled out of the pantry, saber flashing in the candlelight. "Finally found me, Victor? Took you long enough. Why don't you stand and fight instead of hiding like..."

Before she could finish, Victor Zsasz stood, spun, and fired twice. As Tabitha fell to the floor, sword still clenched in lifeless fingers, Victor shrugged, eyes questioning. "Like what, exactly?"

"Tabby?" A female voice called from the porch. Zsasz glanced over his shoulder, holstered his pistol, and let himself out the backdoor, stepping over the blood pool spreading along the wood plank floor. He disappeared into the yard just as Selina moved into the now-empty living room. She frowned. An unnatural quiet descended on the mansion.

Her booted foot landed on something decidedly _not_ wood. Startled, Selina peered down. A pistol rested guiltily on the floor, the barrel inadvertently pointed deeper into the house. "Tabitha? Hello?"

Selina placed a hand on the door frame as she tiptoed along scattered floorboards to the hall. Candlelight flickered off the kitchen cabinets...and off a leather panted leg lying menacingly near the pantry. A freeze clenched her heart: it had nothing to do with the cold wind howling through the open front door. Selina sobbed, deep in her throat, and slid down the door frame, collapsing onto the floor in agony as she stared at Tabitha's prone form.


End file.
